


Down With The Sickness

by commoncomitatus



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 10:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 149,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between "Where & When" and "Buried". Having a reformed villain in your midst can be distracting... and when you work for the Warehouse, distractions can be dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Artie Nielsen was not happy.

The trouble with that, of course, was that Artie was _never_ happy... and trying to figure out exactly why the old dude was pissed in any given moment was pretty much impossible. At least, notwithstanding the obvious – it was daylight, and Claudia Donovan was still alive and breathing, and thus able to continue making his life miserable – and it wasn’t as though either of those things were likely to change any time soon. Well, she amended silently, she kind of hoped they weren’t going to change, because she was kind of coming to enjoy the whole ‘being alive’ thing, and really it was...

...okay, kind of not the point.

The point was, of course, that her general alive-ness was reason enough to make Artie mad, most days, and so it wasn’t really very helpful in narrowing down what might have sparked this particular tempest of Artie-shaped fury.

She’d been napping on the couch at the B&B, and had woken up to a grogginess-blurred vision of the man himself, hands on his hips and a practiced scowl furrowing his ever-expanding eyebrows. Possibly, it was the napping that had him pissed, but even that wasn’t a particularly unusual state of affairs; in this case, it was completely Pete’s fault, because (of course) he’d insisted on spending the entire night playing _Super Mario Kart_ on his wicked cool flat-screen TV, and who could say no to that, seriously? Not that that would do much to calm His Royal Crankiness, she thought as she rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on anything other than the revenants of dreams, but it was what it was, and it definitely wasn’t anything new.

Still, though, it didn’t change the fact that he was mad as all hell, and more than ready to make her even more aware of it than she already was.

“What...” he demanded, in that infuriatingly condescending tone of voice that he used sometimes when he wanted to call her ‘young lady’ without having to actually say the words, “...do you think you’re doing?”

She muttered a whiny curse under her breath, and tried to sit up. “I _was_ catching a few zees,” she said pointedly. “ _Now_ , I’m just trying to figure out what friggin’ rule I’ve supposedly broken to make you go all ‘Indiana Jones And The Death-Glare Of Doom’ on me.”

For about four seconds, he just stared at her like she’d been speaking in Martian and he had no idea what the hell she was talking about... and, honestly, even that wouldn’t have been too far out of the ordinary either. At any rate, it was a look that he gave her often, even when she couldn’t possibly have made herself any clearer – like right now – and she was so used to it that she didn’t blink when he shook his jowls at her in that way he had of furiously insisting that _she_ was the one who was misunderstanding _him_.

“No, no, no...” he growled, waving his arms about like a hyperactive windmill. “Will you please, for once in your miscreantic life, just pay attention and answer the question I ask you?”

“Okay...” she sighed, in the vain hope of pre-empting the inevitable Artie Nielsen frenzy. “First? ‘Miscreantic’ is so not a word. And second? You asked what I was doing. I told you.”

“Don’t get clever with me, young lady...” he grumbled (and there it was, the ‘young lady’ that she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist for long). He was cranky, impatient, scowling at her like it was somehow her fault that he’d asked her a question that didn’t sound anything like the one he actually intended to ask. And, really, it wouldn’t have surprised her at all if he genuinely believed it was. When in doubt, after all, blame Claudia. “I don’t care what you’re doing _here_. And you know perfectly well that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Well, here’s a neat little trick, geezer,” she snapped, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “Next time, try actually sayin’ what you mean. Was that all?”

“Yes,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I mean, _no_. I mean... look, just...” He groaned, and Claudia was forced to choke back a giggle, or risk having her head bitten off. “...what the hell have you been doing in my kitchen?”

Claudia quirked a brow. “ _Your_ kitchen?” she echoed.

He waved a hand, though in his current state, it looked more like a helpless flail than anything else. “All right, fine. _Leena’s_ kitchen. Happy now? Can we please get back on track?” She nodded, rolling her shoulders to work out some of the revenant post-nap stiffness. “My point is, you’re not going to get out of this on a technicality. What, in the name of all that is holy and good in the universe, have you been doing in that kitchen?” She opened her mouth to answer, but he silenced her with another deadly glare. “And don’t you dare try and tell me you were ‘cooking’. There is no conceivable way that what you have done to that poor kitchen could ever, by any definition, in any possible reality – and believe me, I’ve seen a few – be described as ‘food preparation’.”

“Oh my God, you drama queen!” Claudia cried in the second or two before her brain caught up with the rest of her and told her it was a bad idea. “The kitchen’s totally fine, dude. I left it in pristine condition. I even swept the floor and everything. You can’t possibly have found anything in there to bitch about.”

“You ruined my oven timer,” he said flatly.

Claudia groaned, biting down on the urge to (literally) facepalm. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he replied, sounding colder by the second. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I _fixed_ it!” she cried, a little defensively; the truth was, she’d actually been feeling pretty damn proud of herself when she’d finished that particular project, and this was so totally not the reaction she’d been hoping for. “Dude, the stupid thing barely even worked at all before I got started on it! And now look at it!”

“I don’t want to—” he started, but she wouldn’t let him finish.

“Dude! It calls you by name now! It can count down to the nearest micro-second! It can speak freakin’ _Spanish_!”

Artie glared. Claudia braced herself for a rage-fuelled barrage of _‘why would I need an oven timer that can speak Spanish?’_ (answer: because it’s cool, duh?), and reached desperately for one of the couch cushions, just in case she’d need to use it as a protective shield.

“You ruined it,” he said again, reaching effortlessly around the barrier of the cushion and hauling her roughly to her feet – by the collar, no less, as if she hadn’t suffered enough indignity already (and, dude, hands off the shirt!). “You ruined my oven timer, and now you are going to go back into that kitchen and undo whatever chaos you wrought on it, until it is back to normal, and you are not going to come out of there until it is _exactly_ as it was. And I mean _exactly_.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” she protested, knowing before she even started that she should probably just save her breath; when Artie got it in his head that she’d done something destructive, all the logic in the world wouldn’t be enough to sway him. “I was just teaching—” She cut herself off quickly, floundering; it was just for a heartbeat, but she knew from repeated (and oh so painful) experience that it would still be more than enough to set his radar beeping, and rushed on before he had a chance to ask who she’d been teaching, or what. “—uh, teaching _myself_ how to use the oven... ’cause, hey, it’s just not cool that Leena has to do all the cooking and everything all by herself, right? and no, Artie, baking cookies at four in the morning ’cause you’re hungry doesn’t count. And, like, I was trying one of those recipe... things... and your stupid prehistoric oven timer wouldn’t give me an accurate timing for anything. What’s a girl supposed to do?”

“A girl,” Artie snapped, “is supposed to ask permission before rewiring things that don’t belong to her.”

Claudia glared. “Whatever. Point is, I just did what any good citizen would do, and I kinda sorta totally fixed it. Y’know, like, rehabilitated it into modern timer society? And made it awesome.”

Artie huffed a melodramatic sigh. “Claudia. That timer is set to my very precise specifications,” he informed her, and Claudia bit down on her tongue to keep from pointing out that she’d figured that part out for herself, thanks, and that his so-called _precise specifications_ had been outdated probably since the early 1800s.

“Artie,” she shot back. “I told it to count twenty minutes, and it quit on me after seven. Like, it made the kind of noise that only dogs can hear, then made like one and played dead. What the hell kind of timer—”

“It’s _mine_!” he roared. “It’s programmed very specifically—”

“—to give up and die after five minutes? Artie, it’s _ancient_. You should be thanking me for showing some initiative and fixing the stupid thing for you, not yelling at me!”

“It wasn’t yours to fix!” he roared, shoving her through the door and out into the corridor, shouting loudly enough that the entire B&B would be able to hear the force of his righteous rage (on purpose, Claudia couldn’t help suspecting). “It was mine, and I liked it the way it was! So you are going to get your delinquent little butt back into that kitchen, right now, and you are going to undo everything you did. Every wire, every resistor, every last drop of solder. Everything! Am I making myself clear?”

“Clear as glass, your Highness,” Claudia sighed.

She stomped miserably through the building, probably a bit more loudly than she should have; she was sure Leena would give her that Look (TM) that she was so good at, the one that said she wasn’t angry, just _disappointed_ that Claudia wasn’t giving enough respect to the carpets, or whatever. Still, if Artie could make enough noise to disturb everyone in the place just because of some old fossil of an oven timer (which didn’t even work right to begin with, jeez!), then so could she. And she would do it better, too. 

The kitchen was exactly as she’d left it. Everything in its proper place, and not a speck of dust to be seen. Claudia couldn’t help noticing the way Artie had typically neglected to point out the uncharacteristic spotlessness of the place in his little diatribe. Of course, it was all _‘dammit, Claudia, why did you have to go and use your initiative to make the world a better place?’_ , without so much as a snuff of _‘well, gee, Claudia, you sure did a kickass job of tidying up, kudos for that at least!’_.

She really should have been used to this crap by now.

Unsurprisingly, the telltale timer was also exactly where she’d left it, sitting smugly on top of the oven like it owned the place. Clearly, Artie hadn’t even touched it. No doubt, he’d just walked in, taken one look at it, used his magical Artie-radar to read her fingerprints on it, and promptly stormed off to find out what she’d done. And without even pausing to find out if it was good or bad or anything!

It really wasn’t fair, she thought, the way that he always assumed everything she touched was automatically going to devolve into something horrible and terrible and awful. Even with a freakin’ Victorian criminal now living among them, even knowing as they all did how much Artie hated HG and everything she stood for, apparently it was still more natural for him to Just Blame Claudia.

And besides all of that, this was (technically) way closer to being HG’s fault than hers, anyway. So it really, really, _really_ wasn’t fair. The one time HG actually was to blame for something, and it was Claudia who got the boot in her ass over it. Not cool, not fair, and so totally not what she’d signed up for.

Still, though, because there was a part of her that maybe still wanted to prove herself, she did as she was told, and – grumbling and muttering the whole way – she set to work dismantling the timer for the second time.

She was about halfway through the process of taking the thing apart (again) when she heard the sound of movement behind her, punctuated by a heavy shadow falling across the counter, and the jolt of surprise that shot through her at the unexpected intrusion sent bits of timer cascading across the spotless kitchen floor.

“Crap!” she yelped, and dropped to her knees with the kind of reflexive ease that only came with being the sort of person who had to pick up stuff they’d dropped about a hundred times a day. “I’m fixing your stupid timer, Artie, okay? Get off my back.”

The throaty chuckle that ricocheted off the walls and bounced over her head most definitely did not belong to Artie. It was too female, too amused... and above all else, too _British_.

Squeaking with combined shock and horror, Claudia jumped back to her feet and whirled around to face the intruder, watching with undisguised dismay as the half-dozen timer pieces she’d just collected back up went flying in all directions all over again, a shameful and inescapable testament to her clumsiness.

“Jeez, HG!” she cried, caught between righteous indignation and flat-out humiliation. “You scared the crap out of me! Don’t they, like, knock before entering in the 1890s?”

“Not usually,” HG (for it was she) replied coolly, with the kind of delicious smirk that Claudia was sure had to be illegal in at least eighteen states. “We didn’t have ‘Reality TV’, darling. We had to get our scandals from somewhere.”

“Right.” Claudia huffed a weary sigh, and set to work scooping all the timer pieces back up again. “Well, no scandals in here. Did you, y’know, want something, or were you just trying to scare the living crap out of me to see what kind of noise I’d make? ’Cause, if it’s that last thing, you oughtta know by now, it’s not a pretty one...”

HG’s expression shifted, the playful (not seductive, Claudia told herself, definitely not seductive) smirk falling off her face to be replaced by something that was a little too regal to be a frown.

“Of course not,” she said, suddenly sober. “I just saw you coming in here, and wondered if I could offer any assistance...” She trailed off, studying Claudia’s face for a heartbeat or two longer than a normal person would, then frowned. “Have I done something to offend you, Claudia? You weren’t quite so abrasive the last time we were in here...”

“What?” Claudia snapped, still mostly focused on keeping all the timer bits in her hands and not all over the kitchen floor for the fifteenth time; it took a moment for her brain to catch up with the rest of her and realise that maybe HG was misconstruing her distraction as rejection. “Oh!” she cried when it finally hit her, and shook her head hard enough that the room started to spin. “No, no! No. No, dude, you didn’t do anything. It’s just... oh, you know, Artie bein’ Artie.” She gestured out into the hallway, and a couple of the smaller timer pieces managed to escape from her tentative grip and made another break for freedom. “Oh, for the love of—”

“Allow me,” HG interrupted smoothly.

Without waiting for an invitation, she crouched to retrieve the debris, moving with a kind of fluid grace that made Claudia blush with what was probably only about 80% jealousy. She didn’t hand them back, though, presumably because she didn’t trust Claudia to keep from dropping them all over again; instead, she simply placed them gently on the counter, subtly but pointedly out of Claudia’s reach, then turned back to her with a genuine smile.

“You seem to have gotten yourself into something of a tangle, darling. May I assist?”

Claudia turned the full force of her scowl onto the rebel timer pieces sitting smugly on the counter, partially because they were to blame for this whole thing, but kind of maybe also because she wasn’t brave enough to turn it on HG. “No way...” she replied, all exaggerated coolness that was probably about as convincing as lion masquerading as a mouse. “I’ve so totally got this all under control.”

“I’m sure you do,” HG placated easily. “But two pairs of hands are more efficient at this sort of thing than one, darling, aren’t they?”

There wasn’t really any opening to argue with that, Claudia supposed bitterly. Numbers was numbers.

“Okay, fine,” she snapped instead, and hated the way it sounded more like a petulant whine than anything else. “But only because it’s totally your fault I got in trouble in the first place.”

“Oh?” HG purred, and her smile widened almost to Cheshire Cat levels. “Why, do tell...”

Not entirely trusting herself to maintain eye-contact with the newest member of their little family without going all red and stammering like a little kid with a crush (which she so totally wasn’t), Claudia turned her attention to un-wiring the rewired timer, locking in steadily on the task before letting herself open her mouth to try and talk.

“Oh, you know,” she muttered, trying probably a little (or a lot) too hard to sound standoffish and indifferent and super cool, and not at all like she was flailing like a fanboy in heat, all the while mentally cursing the way the timer was starting to shake in her (suddenly sweaty) hands. “The whole _‘oh Claudia, would you show me the kitchen? I’m simply dying for a spot of tea!’_ dealio? That thing?”

Behind her, HG laughed. “I don’t recall phrasing it quite like that,” she said coolly. “Tea is rather overrated, I find.”

“I thought all you old-school British types liked it,” Claudia muttered, distracted by a sudden jolt of not-at-all-dangerous (if Artie asked) electricity from the timer, and bit down hard on her lip to keep from cursing. “Isn’t it, like, a law or something?”

“Indeed,” HG deadpanned. “Like keeping a stiff upper lip, and reciting the national anthem first thing every morning?”

“Yeah!” Claudia enthused, and desperately hoped that the hapless Victorian didn’t figure out that she was actually kind of serious about that.

“As with so many things in this world, Claudia,” HG told her, serious but not unkind, “there is a time and a place for tea.” She chuckled, mostly to herself. “All things in moderation, as they say. Or, well... most things, anyway...”

“Only ‘most things’, huh?” Claudia asked, trying not to focus so hard on the woman that she lost sight of what she was doing to the timer, but it was hard when HG made words like that. “So, what kind of things don’t, then?”

“Well...” HG hummed thoughtfully, then seemed to decide that evading the question entirely was the best way of dealing with it. “Never you mind, darling.”

“That’s so not an answer,” Claudia whined.

HG laughed. “Perhaps when you’re older.”

The long, slightly uncomfortable silence that followed suggested that that was the end of that, at least so far as HG was concerned. So, while Claudia pouted and scowled and struggled not to electrocute herself for a second time, HG tapped her foot on the tiled floor. It was a tough call, whether she was trying to make the younger woman even more nervous than she already was, or simply trying to annoy her so much that she had no choice but to continue talking.

Hoping it was the latter (and trying to shift it in that direction if it wasn’t), Claudia made a cranky noise in her throat. “His Royal Crankiness found out what we did to his stupid timer.”

“What _we_ did?” HG echoed, voice hovering somewhere between amusement and cynicism. “Darling, I don’t recall _us_ doing anything. I recall _you_ telling me how – what was that word? – ‘epic’ it would be if we ‘upgraded’ the device. But _I_ certainly did no such thing.”

“Well, sure... in practice...” Claudia whined. “But it was so totally your idea to come in here and mess around with stuff in the first place, so you should totally take some of the blame for what we... I... for what happened.”

“Claudia.” The interruption was sharp, but softly spoken and carefully void of malice. “I really don’t think Artie needs any further reason to want me gone. Are you really suggesting that we give him one anyway?” Claudia groaned; she’d forgotten that particular little detail, and felt even more stupid now, but HG wasn’t done yet. “I will, of course, bow to your wish if that’s what you want,” she went on, ever the heart of gold. “But do you really think it would be prudent? I don’t imagine it would make him any less angry with you, anyway—” (this was definitely true) “—and, this way, at least he’ll be talking to one of us again by the end of the day.”

She was probably right about that, too, Claudia mused bitterly. Artie got mad at Claudia approximately sixty-two times a day, often for things far bigger (and, on occasion, more life-threatening) than this, and was usually at least mostly talking to her again within a few hours of the incident in question. If he found out that she’d reprogrammed his precious timer while in cahoots with his mortal nemesis, though? Not so much.

Still, though, she couldn’t quite keep from feeling a little pissed about it; it was cool that HG was new and everything, and Claudia was totally down for making her feel more at home, even taking the fall for her sometimes, if that would help to keep the peace or whatever. It was no secret that Artie wasn’t happy about her being here, and no secret that Myka was very happy about it, and the two of them had been fighting almost constantly ever since; Claudia wasn’t really the kind of girl who’d take someone else’s beating if she could help it, but she was so freaking tired of having to deal with this crap, she’d do almost anything if it would keep them from arguing about it.

Of course, being willing to do something didn’t mean she had to like it, and Claudia was getting really tired of always being everyone’s go-to girl when they needed someone else to blame, of always being the one who’d screwed up, even when she hadn’t. She was getting so damn tired of everything...

And yet, of course, she’d do this anyway. Because she was too much of a coward not to.

“Fine!” she growled, reconnecting a couple of wires with rather more savagery than they really needed, and finding herself rewarded with another reprimanding shock. “Fine. It’s all my fault. Just like it always is. I was in here, all on my own...”

HG huffed a sigh. It was impatient, or at least it was supposed to be, but there was something in the noise that was neither of those things, something that sounded almost affectionate. A kind of fondness, almost, that might have made sense if Claudia had been Myka or Pete (or possibly even Leena, but she kind of had her doubts about that; while she was definitely not as grudge-holding as Artie, Leena didn’t really seem to like HG very much either) or someone else that HG had that kind of familiarity with. Only it wasn’t them, it was Claudia, lame and awkward and not worth of HG’s fondness at all, and the softness of it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up in a way that she couldn’t quite understand.

“I forget,” HG murmured, almost like an explanation, “how much of a child you are.” Claudia opened her mouth to take very loud offense to that, but HG was already correcting herself. “I don’t mean to say that you have a lack of maturity, darling, don’t misunderstand me. On the contrary, you have a far greater abundance of it than... certain others I could name...”

“Like Pete?” Claudia suggested, without hesitation.

“I would deign to imply no such thing!” HG gasped, clasping a hand dramatically to her chest for a moment, before moving swiftly on. “But Mr Lattimer’s maturity is not the issue here. The point is, sweet Claudia, that you have a great deal of growing still ahead of you. And it’s easy to forget how one so young might misjudge the volatility of a situation like this one.” Claudia whirled away from the timer to quirk a brow, and HG continued with another sigh, this time one that clearly weighed far more heavily on her than she’d ever admit in front of someone like Claudia. “Artie’s opinion of me won’t change, darling. No matter how many proofs to the contrary he’s presented with.”

“It might...” Claudia argued, a bit pathetically.

HG smiled, face alight with the kind of maternal warmth that reminded Claudia in no uncertain terms that the literary genius of the 1890s, the once-bronzed homicidal felon, had once also been a mother. “It won’t. Some things in this world are not to be changed, and I have made my peace with that. But we don’t want to rock the boat when we don’t have to.” Her smile shifted, sharpening at the edges into something cool, and Claudia felt her insides go all gooey and squirmy. “Do we?”

“I guess not,” she mumbled, trying not to sulk. “I didn’t even say anything about you being in here, anyway. It just would’ve been cool to share the blame. Y’know. Since you were kinda sorta partly mostly totally responsible and all?”

HG stared at her, incredulous. “Kind of, sort of, partly, mostly, _and_ totally?” she echoed, horror-stricken. “Claudia, my darling child, do you have any idea how many laws of grammar you’ve just decimated?”

Claudia frowned for about half a second, then rolled her eyes and spun back to the timer, deciding that it was more worthy of her attention now that stupid word things had been brought up. “Nope. Maybe you should ask Myka. I bet she’d know. In fact, I bet she’d probably find, like, three other ones that you didn’t think of, and then knock down your grade.”

“Oh, I’m sure she would...” HG agreed.

There was no mistaking the suggestive edge to her voice, though Claudia wasn’t au fait enough with the world of innuendo to pick apart the nuances. Still, for probably the eighth time since the conversation started, she found herself blushing just the same, and she was suddenly very grateful that she was totally focused on the timer and not on HG right then.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke, and the stillness of the air was punctuated by the spark of electricity and the twitching of wires as Claudia forcefully reset the stupid timer to Artie’s stupid specifications, and set to work putting all the pieces back together; hopefully, he wouldn’t notice the crazy-glue she’d used to reattach the extra bits (the unfortunate result of gravity and the unnecessarily hard floor)... and, well, if he did, then she would _definitely_ be laying the blame on HG. Some things, even she wasn’t gonna take the fall for.

“Claudia?”

Grateful for any excuse to discard her unnecessary, pointless, stupid task (and who the hell _didn’t_ want a Spanish-talking oven timer, for the love of whatever?), Claudia set the device tentatively back in its place, and turned her attention back to her companion. By now, HG’s expression had shifted into something different once again, this time to something that looked almost contemplative, and Claudia redoubled her efforts to keep from blushing yet again as she imagined the Victorian not-really-a-felon-really watching her while she worked.

“What’s up?” she asked, and leaned against the counter with exaggerated casualness (and so completely and utterly not at all because it was pretty much the only thing keeping her from tripping over her own feet just then).

HG’s lips quirked, like she wanted to smirk again, but she was trying to behave herself (or, at least, to make a show of behaving). “I just wanted to thank you,” she said, in that deceptively (but awesomely) innocuous old-school accent of hers.

Claudia blinked for a moment, then shrugged it off. “It’s no big thing,” she said. “I’m always covering for everyone else, anyway. Or, well, y’know, Pete. And sometimes Leena – she gets into more trouble than you’d think for someone who owns a whole building...” She trailed off before she could lose herself to the endless stream of babble. “Anyway, what’s one more lecture from Mr ‘I had my sense of adventure surgically removed at birth’?” She giggled, but it sounded rather more nervous than amused, even to her own ears.

“No, darling, you misunderstand,” HG corrected gently, shaking her head. “As grateful as I am for your noble act of self-sacrifice, I was, in fact, thanking you for showing me around this morning. I know that it can’t be easy for you, finding yourself caught in the middle of all of this conflict.” Claudia shrugged again, and waved a hand, awkward and clumsy and so very much not wanting to talk about this. HG, because she was a genius, sensed this, and subtly switched tack. “And also, of course, for showing me all of your technical prowess.”

She gestured gracefully at the timer, and Claudia gulped so loudly that it would probably be a miracle if Mrs Frederic herself didn’t hear it, all the way from whatever Holiday Home For The Ancient And Slightly Supernatural she disappeared to on her days off. Was HG Wells – _the_ freakin’ HG Wells, for crying out loud! – really suggesting that she had _prowess_? And okay, fine, so it was just tech prowess, and who didn’t have that in the 21st century (at least, among those of them who didn’t come from the 1800s), but still!

“Well, y’know...” she stammered, embarrassingly flustered. “It’s no big. Timers are, like, y’know... Tech For Beginners. Any idiot can program one if they got a pair of hands and a couple wires. You should see what I can do with power tools.”

The implication of what she’d just said hit her right between the eyes about two seconds after HG’s explosive laughter.

“No! Wait! Crap! I... I just meant... uh...”

To her credit, HG was at least trying to rein in her guffaws, which was a hell of a lot more than someone like, say, Pete would have done if he’d been the one in this situation... and, yeah, Claudia really, really didn’t want to have to think about that for more than the microsecond it took to pass through her brain and duly traumatise her.

“Oh, don’t fret, darling,” HG was chuckling, all upper-class and prim and proper, and everything that was supposedly good and right in Victorian society. “I’m sure I know _precisely_ what you meant.”

“Oh my God...” Claudia whined. “Look. I didn’t... I don’t...” She gestured wildly. “Power saws! Electric drills! Not like—”

“Relax,” HG chastened. “You’ll work yourself into a terrible state if you don’t calm down, darling. Have we not moved past the ‘awkwardly nervous’ phase yet?”

“I’m not nervous!” Claudia squeaked. “Or, like... awkward. I’m just... I didn’t mean... like... when I said ‘power tools’, I just meant...”

“Good grief, my dear girl,” HG said. “I’m over a hundred years your senior. What could I possibly have thought you were insinuating?” For all the assurance in her words, her eyes and her smirk were telling a completely different story, and it just about short-circuited what little was left of Claudia’s brain to try to interpret so many mixed signals in so short a space of time. HG’s smile, naturally, only widened on seeing her distress. “Claudia, darling. Breathe, slowly. Now let us both just forget that this conversation ever happened. Yes?”

“All right.” The affirmation was rather more petulant than she’d intended it to be, but there wasn’t very much she could do about that now, so she just moved the hell on. “I should, y’know, make sure this thing works. Artie’ll have kittens if it’s not in perfect malfunctioning order by the time he comes in to check on me.” She glanced at her watch, making a big show of rolling her eyes. “Which, knowing him, will be in about two minutes. Because apparently, even though I did just fine fixing it by myself, I am apparently completely incapable of un-fixing it by myself. Or maybe he just thinks the stupid timer needs him to hold its teeny tiny little timer-shaped hand and tell him where the mean ol’ tech nerd hurt it, or—”

“Claudia?”

“—or maybe he thinks I’m fixing other crap while I’m here. ‘Cause, yeah, Artie, it’s not like I’ve not learned my lesson after two hours of you whining at me—”

“Claudia...”

“—or maybe he just wants to whine some more. Yeah, I bet that’s totally it. He never gets tired of it, you know. You think it’s ’cause you’re, like, reformed evil or whatever, that he’s giving you a bad time? It’s so not, dude. He just really digs making everyone else’s life completely miserable. And boring. And, like...”

“That’s lovely, darling,” HG said quickly, diving with a little too much enthusiasm on the way that Claudia had to stop to catch her breath. “Should I leave you to your task, then?”

Claudia blinked. “Well, you said you didn’t want him to catch you in here,” she replied. “And you’d just get bored anyway, waiting for the timer to not talk Spanish any more – like there’s even any challenge in that, please, Artie, you could do it yourself if you just freakin’ tried a little bit – and, like, don’t you have grammar games to play with Myka or something?”

HG chuckled again, that almost-but-not-quite dirty chuckle that really didn’t seem to be very Victorian... or even really properly British at all, actually. “I can think of a vast number of word games I’d enjoy playing with Agent Bering,” she remarked, faux-thoughtfully.

Everything about her body language was telling Claudia that ‘word games’ were the last thing on her mind just then, but Claudia was trying very hard not to think about all the things she probably was thinking about instead. And besides, she was fairly sure that Myka would Tesla on sight anyone who dared to make innuendos out of her precious words anyway, so if that was HG’s intention, she was going to be tragically disappointed.

“But yes,” HG went on after a moment or two, and her voice was kind of distant and not at all in the room any more. Which, Claudia couldn’t help thinking, was kind of rude; she could at least have had the decency to leave the kitchen in body before she let her thoughts wander away from it too. Wasn’t that what polite Victorian killers did? Not that HG seemed to be especially worried about what was expected of her just then, as she kept going in the same not-at-all-there voice, “You’re right, of course, darling. I’ve distracted you long enough, and I really did want to tease Agent Bering about something...”

Now _that_ , Claudia decided, after mulling it over for a few ridiculously long seconds, was most definitely an innuendo.

“Right,” she mumbled, surprising herself with the unexpected roughness of her tone. “Just, y’know, try and keep it down, yeah?”

“I shall do my best,” HG promised without so much as a shred of sincerity, and then, with an exaggerated bow, turned and swept from the kitchen.

Left alone with the sparkling tiles and the now-lopsided timer, Claudia heaved a weighted sigh and let herself slump back against the counter. There was just something about HG, something innate in her that, though it wasn’t exactly imposing, or at least not deliberately so, it nonetheless had the frustrating effect of filling Claudia with the humiliating kind of nervousness that, if Myka and the others knew about it, would guarantee her a one-way trip back to the psych clinic.

Maybe it was the accent, she thought. It was a very intimidating accent, and it was perfectly natural for someone who didn’t hear a lot of Victorian-speak to be kind of thrown by it every time HG opened her mouth and lobbed another curveball of maybe-innuendo-but-possibly-not. Briefly, and trying really hard not to think too much about it, Claudia wondered if Myka got nervous like that too, if she got all squirmy and jittery talking to the silver-tongued killer who seemed to like her company a bit too much.

It wasn’t even that she wanted to bond with HG, really. It was just that the other woman had a mass of 21st century adjusting to do, and Myka, for all the skills she did have, wasn’t really well-schooled in the art of being hip and cool and modern. She could teach HG a thing or two about old books, sure... but then, HG was kind of the world’s leading authority on old books and junk like that. So that pretty much left Claudia to cover all the bases of _‘Welcome to the Modern World’_.

Not that she minded that. Nope, not at all. Well, okay, so maybe it had taken a while to get over the whole _‘newly de-bronzed and strangely literal’_ dealio, but she’d got there in the end. She didn’t sleep with one eye open any more, at least, which was kind of a big thing for someone who’d spent as long as she had worrying about crazies hunting her down in the middle of the night (a painful, never-quite-gone revenant from her institution days, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone). But she was over that now, at least so far as worrying about HG’s intentions went, and she was so totally ready to do her duty as a useful member of the Warehouse family, helping her to acclimatise to the 21st century and all the epic within it.

Which was why she’d brought her into the kitchen that morning. Because nothing said ‘welcome to the family’ like an impromptu (and possibly illicit) culinary adventure, right?

It was mostly well-intentioned, at least. HG was so excitedly curious, so earnestly intrigued by absolutely everything she came into contact with, and it was infectious. Claudia supposed she could understand the sentiment; if she had been put on ice for a hundred years, she was pretty sure her first task would be to get all caught up on a century’s worth of new tech too... and, of course, it was no secret in the Warehouse that Claudia Donovan was the go-to girl for all things technological and awesome. So it made forty-two flavours of sense that HG would want her – not Myka! – to be her guide through the wonderful world of 21st century living, even if she did (technically speaking) maybe like Myka a little bit more.

The problem was, of course, that whenever Claudia got landed with any kind of task, of doing anything, ever, at all, it had the rather unfortunate consequence of A) her getting in trouble, B) Artie getting high blood pressure, and C) random pieces of electronic equipment learning a new language or three.

Admittedly, reprogramming the oven timer had been her idea... but that didn’t really make it her _fault_ , did it? It was definitely closer to HG’s than hers, she decided. Completely and totally. Because, after all, HG was the one who was all suave and British and quaint and charming and clever and... well, just kind of amazing. Sort of. And, well, yeah, who wouldn’t want to show off just a bit when presented with all of that and the perfect opportunity to be amazing too?

And anyway, if it was all right for Myka to be running around the Warehouse with her tongue hanging out ( _‘oh, Helena, can I manhandle your grappler? I’ll take good care of it...’_ geez, Myka, even freakin’ Pete had more subtlety than that!), then surely Claudia, who at least had the folly of youth in her excuse box, could be cut some slack for wanting to flaunt her own particular talents a little bit too.

Not that that would hold any kind of water with Mr Crankypants, she knew. HG was right about that part; Artie really did hate her, for all that she genuinely had proven herself, and that wasn’t about to change any time soon, even if they’d gotten the stupid timer to bake its own damn cookies. And, not that it offered her much consolation, the thought of having to explain to Artie that his precious timer was speaking Spanish specifically because his renegade protégé had been trying to impress their resident villain... well, it was even less appealing than just sucking it up and letting him think she was bored and had wanted to antagonise him again.

Still, though, it didn’t seem fair. And it didn’t help, either, that, contrary to her sort-of not-quite not-at-all hopes, HG hadn’t swooned away into a dead faint and immediately begun composing semiconscious sonnets about how fabulous the redhead’s _prowess_ was.

She sighed and poked at the mostly-lifeless timer until it fell over. “Well, _I_ thought you were cool,” she mumbled dejectedly.

“¡Muchas gracias, Señor Artie!” the timer chirped happily.

Apparently, it was not quite as enthusiastic about un-learning the language as it had been about learning it in the first place. Claudia sighed, muttered a curse, and went to fetch the power saw.


	2. Chapter 2

“Agent Bering?”

Myka blinked at the sound of her name, but she didn’t look up from the report she was halfway through writing. “That’s awfully formal...” she murmured, absent and focused. Then, suddenly cautious as the implications of what she was hearing caught up with her work-addled mind, “Wait, did you do something?”

A breathy laugh, then the weight of familiarly slender hands on her shoulders. “Of course not!” The affronted horror was wholly artificial. “Why do you people always assume I must have done something?”

Myka shrugged, then breathed a contented sigh as the fingers at her shoulders dug into the perfect places, the gentle pressure of a massage. “Because you usually have?” she shot back.

“Agent Bering, you wound me.”

Another chuckle, lower this time, and Myka finally gave up and turned around to face the invader of her space.

“HG,” she said, as if she hadn’t figured it out who it was from the first syllable spoken in that distinct accent... to say nothing of the warm, some might even say comfortable, familiarity of her hands. “Or should that be ‘Agent Wells’?”

The lazy smile that split Helena’s features grew wider, and her eyes sparkled. “I would never deign to suppose such delusions of grandeur,” she insisted playfully, then sobered just a little. “Though, I did want to pick your brains about something.”

Had she been anyone else, Myka would probably have told her to be patient and wait until she was done with the report she was still in the middle of. Procedures needed to be followed, after all, and if there was one thing Myka Bering hated more than almost anything else in the world, it was being forced to abandon a task before it was finished. It didn’t matter what it was, a serious issue or a temporary distraction. A vitally important tête à tête with Artie about their next assignment or a pointless diatribe from Pete on the lack of donuts in the B&B’s refrigerator were both equally worthy of disdain, so far as she was concerned. Bottom line, if she was in the middle of something, everything else would just have to wait.

But Helena didn’t fall into the category of ‘everything else’. She didn’t fall into any category at all, really, and she most definitely didn’t fall into the same set of pre-ordained rules that everyone else in the Warehouse did. At least, not as far as Myka was concerned... and, really, not to any of the others either. Artie definitely still treated her differently, still glared at her out of the corner of his eye, even as he grudgingly admitted to being impressed by her talents, and Pete still kept a few feet’s worth of distance from her, wrongly supposing that nobody would notice it so long as he didn’t actually say it out loud.

Myka didn’t mind their silent (and, in Artie’s case, rather loud) suspicions, though. It just reaffirmed in her own mind the resolve to do right by Helena, to make her feel welcomed and appreciated and respected by at least one of them, both as an agent for the Warehouse, and a woman in her own right. Claudia tried to do that too, Myka knew, but she was very young and prone to the awestruck infatuation that came with meeting a real-life legend. She tried, she really did, but she was still Claudia, awkward and clumsy and right on the edge of hopeless, tripping over her tongue and her feet like she did with most members of the human race, and, as endearing as it was, it wasn’t exactly helpful.

It did seem to entertain Helena, though, which Myka believed could only ever be a positive thing. With all the vitriol she was so constantly subject to from Artie, anything at all that could bring a genuine smile out in her was something to be grateful for. Even if it did come from a source as questionable as Claudia Donovan.

Still, though, when it came to maturity and equality, the kind of relationship that a stranger in a strange land would need if she was to survive in a world as alien as this... that was Myka’s cross to bear, and whatever fleeting usefulness Claudia’s wrong-footed enthusiasm may have had, it was obvious that the real work would be hers. And that was exactly the way she wanted it; Myka was always at her happiest when she was given the bulk of responsibility in any given task, and this one was no different from any other. After all, she was the one who had gotten Helena reinstated in the first place. It just made sense. That was all it was. Plain, simple sense.

So, yes, maybe she did turn away from her report, casting the half-finished work to the back of her mind and allowing all of her focus to lock on the woman standing in front of her, hands still neatly covering her shoulders even as Myka spun the chair around in a 180-degree arc to face her properly. And maybe Pete or Artie would have balked to see her turn so readily away from an incomplete report, and maybe Claudia would have gulped and stammered at the change in behaviour (and ultimately not said anything, preoccupied by the task of not falling over), but none of that mattered at all.

“What’s up?” she asked, casual and calm, careful to not let any of those thoughts slip into her voice or touch her smile.

For a moment or two, Helena just watched her; her expression didn’t change at all, and there was nothing to suggest that she might sense the thoughts Myka was working through. And, in any case, the momentary pause was over in a heartbeat, her expression overtaken by another dazzling smile. “Well,” she began, demure and tentative in a way that was entirely for show. “Since I’m an official agent again... and thank you for that, by the way...”

Myka had the good grace not to point out that Helena had already thanked her profusely for that, and simply nodded.

“I was wondering,” Helena went on seamlessly, “if perhaps you could help me to vindicate my grappler from your...” She trailed off, for less than a second, then smirked. “Well, at least, I assume that you filed it away in some dusty corridor, instead of making appropriate use of it.” Myka opened her mouth to protest, to explain her reasoning, but Helena just shot her down with a lilting chuckle. “It seemed more your style than the alternative, my dear.”

“The ‘alternative’?” Myka echoed, offended. “It could have been a dangerous artefact, you know. It would have been irresponsible to make use of it. It would have been—”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Helena cut her off with an impatient wave. “It would have been wholly irresponsible, and thereby utterly unthinkable. But such _fun_ , don’t you think?”

“This isn’t the place for _fun_ , HG,” Myka chastised. “It’s a place—”

“—for work,” Helena finished for her; her eyes were still sparkling with that teasing light that never quite seemed to go out, even in the most serious of moments, but at least she had the good grace to mostly stop smirking. “Yes, yes. You are, of course, quite right, Agent Bering. But since you yourself don’t wish to make use of it, and given that I am newly reinstated and cleared of all felonious charges... perhaps it might be acceptable for my property to be returned to me.” She batted her eyelashes with exaggerated hope. “I just can’t bear to think of her gathering dust on some cluttered shelf in a long-forgotten corner of this dreary place.”

“ _Her_?” Myka echoed, swallowing a laugh. “It’s a girl grappler?”

“Don’t look so entertained,” Helena chastened, flushing a little. 

“I’m sorry,” Myka said, without so much as a hint of sincerity. “If it makes you feel any better, I think Pete named his Tesla ‘Angelina’.”

Helena opened her mouth, looking like she wanted to follow up this revelation with a question ( _’Angelina who?’_ , most likely), but seemed to think better of it, and brushed the issue aside, focusing in on the task at hand, no doubt because she knew that that was the fastest way to Myka’s heart, and subsequently her agreement.

“At any rate,” she pressed. “Do you suppose it would be at all possible to retrieve it? I’m sure not even Artie would find cause to complain, given that I placed it into your care, and as a gift, in the first place.”

She had a point, Myka couldn’t help thinking, and hummed thoughtfully. In herself, she wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of breaking something out of the Warehouse, even if it wasn’t really an artefact, and even if it was just to return it to its rightful owner. Even for Helena, as much as she wanted to do anything, this kind of felt like a bridge too far.

“Myka,” Helena said softly, the playfulness gone in deference to quiet sobriety; clearly, she could sense the conflict in her companion, and was already labouring to banish it. “I’m not asking for the world. I’m not even asking for a tenth of what I could easily and legitimately claim from here.” Finally, she took her hands from atop Myka’s shoulders, and spread them wide in a gesture of simultaneous surrender and plea. “All I want is my grappler. Nothing more.”

It wasn’t really so much to ask for. Myka knew that, and if she’d only kept it like Helena had told her to, and not surrendered it to Warehouse storage as protocol had demanded, it wouldn’t have even been a question at all. She would have simply handed it back without a further word or thought. But she’d been the responsible one. She’d done the right thing at the time, had filed it away in its proper place in the Warehouse, where she’d felt it belonged, and the thought of just waltzing in and taking it back made her chest tighten and constrict. And that wasn’t even taking into account the inevitable disappointment that she knew she would see on Artie’s face when he found out. Or, well, more accurately... _if_ he found out.

Not that it was any of his business in the first place, she thought. The argument was weak and transparent, even in the privacy of her own head, like she was just trying to convince herself that it was okay to do what she already knew she was going to do anyway... but she ignored the little voice telling her to just shut up and accept the situation for the breach of protocol that it was, and focused instead on the part of her that was so certain she could reshape the request and her inevitable, if resisted, compliance with it into something that was slightly less of a borderline-felony.

“All right,” she said after a moment, and the look on Helena’s face – joy mingling with the revenants of effortful patience – told her that she had known exactly where Myka’s thought process would end up, long before she herself had reached the same point. Myka found, in defiance against her own self, that she didn’t actually mind.

“You shan’t regret this, Agent Bering!” Helena cried, delighted beyond the hiding of it.

If the beaming, sunlight-bright smile on her face was anything to go by, to say nothing of the weak-kneed emotion it brought out in her, Myka supposed that she was probably quite right.

“So then,” she said, trying not to let herself think too hard about any of this, “let’s go.”

Of course it was inevitable that they would get caught.

The grappler was exactly where Myka had left it. She hadn’t told anyone about it, so there was no reason to suppose that it wouldn’t be, and yet she couldn’t deny the inexplicably double-beat of her heart when she took the box down and found it still in exactly the same state it had been in when she’d deposited it. No sign of tampering, nothing to suggest that that anyone else had even seen it at all, much less taken it down to get a closer look at it. Everything was exactly as it should have been.

She could feel Helena thrumming with anticipation beside her, body practically vibrating with barely-repressed enthusiasm. It wasn’t like Pete, who bounced around like a grasshopper on speed when he was excited about something, or Artie who picked up and put down everything within reach about a hundred times times (all the while talking at the speed of light), or like Claudia who worked herself up into a state of floundering confusion. It wasn’t even like Myka herself, who – not that she would ever admit it to anyone – was sometimes rather prone to mirror Artie’s work-focused frenzy, locking in on anything and everything except what she really wanted to. Helena was nothing like any of them, just as calm and composed as she ever was, and to an uneducated observer, it would be impossible to tell she was excited at all.

But she was, and Myka knew it. She could feel the sparks of hope radiating out in all directions, crackling like static electricity against her arm in the places where their bare skin touched, whether intentionally or by accident, or some heady combination of the two. On the outside, Helena was the perfect image of Victorian restraint, cool and casual, and Myka’s heart soared to know that she alone was able to feel the emotion rippling under the surface, that Pete or Artie or Claudia would not, that they did not know her like Myka did, and so would never see what she could see shimmering beneath the pristine surface.

She held the grappler very carefully, far more so now than she had been when she’d put it away, because she could feel Helena’s eyes on her. She could feel her fingers twitching at her sides, aching to handle it again, the love she felt for her precious invention rippling tangibly between them. She wanted Helena to see that she was respected, that her possessions were respected, that her _achievements_ were respected. More, she wanted her to know that she, Myka, had taken care of the grappler, that she had treated it with the care it deserved, just as she planned on taking care of Helena’s hopes of being taken seriously as a Warehouse agent. She wanted her to see all of that, to know it and to feel that she could put her faith in it.

And besides, Myka knew how it felt to have a cherished possession, to take comfort simply in the existence of a favourite book or a favourite pen, just as a child drew solace from a familiar blanket or a worn-out old toy. She knew it well, and it lit her up within to see it shine behind Helena’s eyes as she gazed at her grappler.

“Thank you,” she breathed, visibly touched. For a moment or two, all she did was stare, as if afraid that the thing would disappear if she looked away from it, but then she seemed to catch herself, to remember the company she was in, and she glanced up at Myka, sincerity and real warmth glowing on her face. “Myka, I—”

“Hey, hey, hey!”

It was, of course, the legendary mood-killer, Pete Lattimer, chalking up another point for his scoreboard of Ruined Moments.

“Hey, Pete...” Myka sighed.

“‘Hey, Pete’?” he echoed, all mock-wounded, then blinked and shot her a peculiar sort of look, like he knew exactly why she wasn’t happy to see him, even without her having to explain a word of it. She really, really hated when he did that, but he had the decency to downplay it. “Jeez, Mykes,” he grumbled, “could you be any less pleased to see me?” He turned to Helena, and Myka admired the way that, though she knew he wasn’t ecstatic about her presence here, he gave no outward appearance of it. “’Sup, HG.”

“My dear Agent Lattimer.” She smiled, as playful as ever. “A pleasure, as always.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, milady,” Pete grinned, then turned back to study Myka, realising as the reality of the moment finally caught up with his sense of humour that he’d just caught her with her hands all over HG Wells’s grappler. “Whoa,” he said. Then, because apparently he couldn’t resist the call of unnecessary lewdness, “Playing with power tools, ladies?”

While Myka cringed, Helena only smirked. “Why, Mr Lattimer, whatever are you implying?” Her expression shifted, still playful but touched now with something else. “Though, since we’re on the subject, I am reliably informed that young Miss Donovan is very proficient at—”

“Oh my God!” Myka blurted out, utterly aghast. “Stop that! Both of you!”

“Was it something I said?” Helena purred, voice dripping with innocence.

“Don’t you start with me,” Myka warned, and glared at Pete. He really should have known better, after all, than to bait someone as... well, baitable... as HG Wells. “I was just getting HG’s grappler,” she explained carefully.

“Uh.” He stared at them, and she watched him choke down the half-dozen or so innuendos that were clearly running through his head. “What were you doing with HG’s, uh...”

“Grappler, Pete.” Myka grimaced. “It’s a _grappler_. And, for the record, a grappler does not constitute a ‘power tool’.”

“So I’m told,” Helena offered, exaggeratedly helpful. “Apparently, those are things like ‘electric drills’ and ‘power saws’. Or so Claudia took such pains to tell me...”

Myka groaned. Pete was enough of a twelve-year-old without Helena around to encourage him, and Helena was more than enough of a walking innuendo dictionary without Pete there to encourage her as well. Whatever Pete’s feelings towards Helena might have been, whatever qualms he might still be harbouring about her, it was fairly obvious that he wouldn’t let them stand in the way of his lifetime’s ambition of being a terrible influence. And however obvious it was, however clearly Helena could tell that Pete wasn’t comfortable about her, Myka could tell that she too wouldn’t let that stop her playing with him.

The two of them, Myka decided, needed to be kept as far away from each other as possible.

“Look,” she said, in an exasperated (and inevitably fruitless) attempt at keeping both of their minds out of the gutter for just long enough to get them away from here before Artie caught them repossessing so-called Warehouse property. “HG gave me her grappler—” Pete opened his mouth, a boyish _‘ooh, when!?’_ already shaping itself on his tongue, but Myka glared him into silence before he had a chance to interrupt, and pre-empted the question with a weary eye-roll. “When we were dealing with that stupid wrestling team thing. I’m sure even you remember that one, Pete, since you were busy performing emergency surgery on Artie’s appendix at the time...” Pete flexed, and Myka pushed on quickly. “Anyway, she gave me her grappler, and now that she’s back on real active Warehouse duty, she wanted it back.” She exhaled, watched him cautiously, and added, “It’s not a big deal, okay? So don’t make it one.”

He raised his hands in exaggerated self-defence. “Hey, never said it was a big deal. I was just asking ’cause...” He gestured, a little helpless and a lot suggestive. “Well, y’know... a guy catches two chicks stealin’ time in abandoned corners of the Warehouse to play with power tools...”

“It’s not a power tool!” Myka yelled, ignoring the way Helena was trying not to giggle. “God, Pete! How many times?”

“Oh, cool your jets,” Pete muttered, clearly quite disappointed. “ _Un_ powered tools. Whatever. Point is, the ol’ spidey-sense was a-tingling, and I figured I ought to check it out.”

“How remarkably chivalrous of you,” Helena deadpanned.

“Nah,” Pete admitted with a boyish shrug, equal parts embarrassed and secretly proud of himself; Myka knew exactly what was coming next, even before he admitted it out loud. “I just kinda thought I might catch you guys making out.”

Helena, predictable if not exactly subtle, gave a delighted squeal at the suggestion. For her part, Myka was somewhat less amused, and merely grimaced. “Don’t make me re-evaluate my decision to give this back to you...” she warned, and grudgingly handed the grappler over to its rightful owner.

“Oooh!” Pete cooed as it passed him. “Can I play with it?”

Helena opened her mouth to answer, but Myka had no intention of giving her any kind of opening to potentially say ‘yes’. For all of her inarguable genius, Helena was still very new to the 21st century, even just as a hypothetical concept, to say nothing of Pete Lattimer and his unique tendency to break things that didn’t belong to him. (And, on a related subject, Myka still hadn’t forgiven him for snapping her favourite CD in half the previous month... and _no_ , Pete, the fact that Claudia had just uploaded all of her songs to the computer anyway was so very much not the point, goddammit).

“No,” she told him sharply, glaring at them both in equal measure. “He doesn’t get to play with it. He doesn’t get to touch it. He doesn’t even get to _look_ at it. If I catch you encouraging him, it goes right back on the shelf, and neither of you will ever see it again. Am I making myself clear?”

“Why, Agent Bering...” Helena purred, clutching dramatically at her chest with the hand that wasn’t occupied with caressing the grappler. “I had no idea you were so possessive...” She grinned wickedly, and Pete cackled like a maniac. “Very well, then. My grappler shall be for your eyes only. You have my word.”

“Killjoy,” Pete grumbled, but the apparent disappointment didn’t stop him giggling like a two-year-old.

“My sincerest apologies, my dear,” Helena sighed. “Alas, you and I are but cogs in the grand machine. And, as we both know so well, Agent Bering does like to keep her machines... well-oiled.”

“Hey!”

“It’s kind of true...” Pete pointed out, dancing backwards a couple of feet before she had a chance to punch him.

That opportunity being duly taken from her, she simply threw up her hands in exasperation, and turned away from them both in a fit of foot-stomping distgust. “Oh, just... get out of my sight!” she cried. “Both of you!”

“You sound just like Artie!” Pete sounded positively delighted by this analogy, even as Myka growled and lunged at him. He bounced another foot or so backwards, and folded his arms, taunting her from a safe distance. “Anyway, I can’t. His Royal Imperial Majesty, Lord Artimus of the Round Table Of The Thirteen Warehouses sent me to come take you back to the B&B. Apparently we’ve got, like, ‘work to do’, or something...”

Because he was still out of reach, Myka slapped her own forehead; it was rather more painful than she would have liked, but at least she got to hit something.

“What?” she demanded when she recovered. “We got a ping?!”

Pete shrugged. “I guess?”

Myka groaned and slapped her forehead again. She was horrified beyond words, sickened by the mere idea of keeping Artie (or, indeed, anything work-related at all) waiting for even a second longer than she absolutely had to. Who knew how important their newest mission was, or how disappointed Artie would be to see them coming in late? Her spotless record of perfect punctuality, thrown away by Pete’s easily-distracted carelessness!

“For the love of God, Pete!” she wailed. “Why didn’t you say so?”

He blinked, seemingly genuinely confused. “I kinda thought I just did.” He turned to Helena, arms spread wide in a plea for support. “You heard me, right?”

“I did,” she affirmed, and of course she had to take Pete’s side, didn’t she? She placed a gentle hand on Myka’s arm as a gesture of apologetic comfort. “Though perhaps we had best get going, then?” Myka made a little choking noise that was supposed to sound like _‘yes, that would be a good idea, wouldn’t it?’_ , but instead came out as a rattling, helpless sort of whine. Helena patted her arm, all condescending sympathy. “Ideally before our poor dear Myka has a seizure.”

“Yes...” Myka managed. “...that would be a good idea.”

It was, as it turned out, a very good idea. Artie was already pacing the floor when they got there, and it seemed a pretty safe bet that another ten minutes would have seen him frothing and foaming at the mouth. Or possibly just sending out a government-issue search party for their bodies. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether his melodrama would drive him to lather-filled rage or melodramatic but well-meaning panic.

“Where have you been?” he shouted, sounding every bit the harried patriarch. “I sent Pete after you twenty minutes ago! _Twenty minutes ago_!” He rounded on Pete, apparently having already decided that it was all his fault – a fair assessment, Myka couldn’t help thinking – and jabbed a finger at him. “How many times did you stop for donuts between here and there? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Pete griped. “It takes more than two minutes to get to the Warehouse and back when you’re not going at eight hundred miles an hour in first gear.” He cocked his head to the side, a little defensive. “And – hey, hey, hey! – at least, my way, no-one dies.”

Myka wasn’t entirely sure about that, but she refrained from pointing it out. Instead, she turned her attention to the only other semi-reasonable adult in the room. “What’s going on, Artie?” she asked, paving over her enthusiasm with her usual business-like professionalism. “Pete said we got a ping...”

“Yes, yes, we got a ‘ping’,” Artie grouched, then turned back to continue glaring at Pete. “I thought I told you to fetch the delinquent too. I see no delinquent.” He made an exaggerated show of looking all around, and Myka gritted her teeth, already sensing where this was going even before the words left his mouth. “I see a homicidal maniac... but no juvenile delinquent.”

“That was uncalled for, Artie,” Myka barked, flushing angrily. “HG doesn’t have to put up with that, and you know it.”

“Myka...” Helena murmured, too low for the two men too hear, voice laced with weariness. “It’s really not a problem.”

“It _is_ a problem!” Myka hissed back, trying much harder than she’d like to admit to keep her own voice down to a professional level. “HG, he’s—”

“—in charge,” Helena reminded her, very quietly. “So let’s not antagonise him. Let’s just sit quietly and do as he says.”

Furious, but not willing to upset Helena any more than she already was (whether she’d admit to it or not, the slump of her shoulders said it all), Myka let the issue slide. But still, she made a mental note to talk to Artie about it, not for the first time, as soon as they were next alone. She knew he was taking Helena’s presence here as a contention against his authority, and that he was taking her existence at all as a personal slight. For all that she had proven herself, and for all that Artie had even admitted that himself, so far as he was concerned she was still the woman who had killed his former partner, his oldest friend... and Myka understood, on a level that few others did, just how deeply that bond must have run for Artie to still harbour such strong feelings for the man who had betrayed both him and the Warehouse. He must have cared very deeply for MacPherson, even after all he’d done, to still be holding on so tightly to his hatred of the woman who had saved all their lives by killing him.

Still, for all that she really did understand the impotent rage that must rise up like a flash-fire in Artie’s already overburdened chest every time he had to look at Helena, there was a time and a place for him to harbour his grudges... and in front of everyone, at what was supposed to be a professional meeting, in a place where Helena was already struggling to fit in among her peers, much less her superiors, was most decidedly not it. Helena needed support, goddammit! She needed to be coaxed and encouraged if she was to stand any chance at all of being rehabilitated into society, and it wasn’t really doing any good for either of them if Artie was going to continue this vicious cycle of tearing her down every time they were in the same room as each other. It wasn’t good for Helena... and, honestly, it wasn’t good for Artie, either; understandable as the impulse was, he would never be able to leave his pain behind if he kept clinging to it like he was.

Blessedly, though, before the effort of biting her tongue for Helena’s sake became too much for Myka to endure, Artie seemed to decide that they had all dwelt for long enough on the fact that, yes, in case anyone had forgotten, they had a reformed felon living and working beside them. He crossed his arms, avoided Myka’s gaze (no doubt because he knew exactly what sort of look he’d find there), and fixed once more on Pete.

“Would you get out of here, and go find her already?”

“No need.” It was a flourish more than an announcement, soft and lilting, and could only have come from one person.

It wasn’t Claudia, but the indignant whine of “okay! okay! I’m _going_ you... don’t make me regret what I’m about to say.”

That didn’t sound good. Or, Myka amended nervously, more accurately, it didn’t sound good for the rest of them; most of the time, when Artie was toying with the idea of offering something that brought with it the promise of regret (at least, when the subject of the offering was Claudia), the end result was a whole lot of cleaning up for everyone else.

“Wait, what?” Claudia had apparently sensed this as well, and was suddenly sitting bolt upright in her chair, all her previous attitude suddenly whisked away as if by magic. “You’re about to say stuff? To me? That you might regret?” Myka groaned, and heard the sound echoed from every other soul in the room; Claudia, of course, was unfazed. “Dude! What kind of stuff? Good stuff? Bad stuff? Wait, ’cause, no... it can’t be bad stuff, ’cause then you wouldn’t be regretting it and I would. So it’s gotta be good stuff, ’cause, dude, c’mon, you always regret that. But what kind of good stuff? Like—”

“Maybe if you stop to catch a breath, he’ll tell you,” Leena suggested patiently. “And you won’t give yourself a heart attack.”

“What would we do without your wisdom?” Artie asked her, straight-faced, and then returned his attention to the over-excited Claudia. Cringing the whole time, like someone who knew he was about to make a terrible, horrible, grievous mistake, he swallowed a sigh and said, “As for you, young lady... go and pack a bag.”

“Pack a...” She trailed off, blinked, then looked uncertainly up at Leena. “He’s kicking me out? Oh my God, it was just a freakin’, timer! Can he even do that?”

“Uh.” Leena was clearly trying to mask a laugh, though whether it was for the sake of Claudia’s dignity or for her own airs and graces, Myka couldn’t quite tell. “Claudia...”

And, like a cartoon anvil, it hit her. “Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa... hold up. You’re sending me out on another mission?”

From the look on his face, Artie was already starting to regret it. For her part, Myka rather suspected it had nothing whatsoever to do with Claudia’s talents in the field (or, going by her own experience in that department, her complete and utter lack of them), and everything to do with making a point against a certain other new agent who, Myka knew, was quietly aching for a chance to get back out there and prove her worth. It was obvious, embarrassingly so, to anyone who’d stop and look below the surface of what was happening, and it was only the fact that she didn’t want to crush Claudia’s optimism that kept Myka from protesting it out loud.

“Yes,” Artie was saying, through clenched teeth. “Yes, demon child. I’m sending you out on another mission. Try not to spontaneously combust this time, if you can manage it...”

“Oh my God!” Claudia whined. “That was one time! _One time_ , Artie!”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Artie demanded, thrusting a folder at her, not at all gently. “Look, just... just be quiet, and read.”

Myka was so occupied by her attempts to dissect Artie’s intentions, for good or for bad, that she almost completely missed the moment when he handed her a similarly weighted folder. Apparently, he still trusted her to keep Claudia alive in the field despite their mutual almost-failure at that particular task the last time they’d been sent out together. Of course, that was probably the last thing on Artie’s mind just then, and he fixed her with the kind of expectant half-scowl that told her without words that he was sincerely hoping she would be the one to set a good example, and make sure that Claudia actually focused on the work like she was supposed to, and not on any one of a thousand extraneous variables—

“Dude, we’re going to _London_?!”

—rather like that.

For a second or two, the look of undiluted childish joy on Claudia’s face overpowered Myka’s powers of rational thought; she looked positively delirious with it, like the stars had aligned and Christmas had come early, like she truly believed Artie actually, finally, truly trusted her with something serious.

But, of course, the moment couldn’t last. The raw, soul-crushed disappointment on Helena’s face – a stark contrast to the way that Claudia was suddenly lighting up the room with her irrepressible glee – shook Myka violently back to reality, and she knew that she couldn’t keep silent on this.

The look on Helena’s face said it all, confirming without words everything she suspected and wished that she hadn’t. Of course it wasn’t about Claudia. It had nothing to do with Claudia, and everything to do with Artie making a shot at Helena. Thinking otherwise, even for half a moment, was just foolish.

It was a bridge too far, one below-the-belt sucker punch too many. It actually hurt, and, as desperately as she really did want to just keep her mouth shut (as much for Helena’s wish to ‘keep the peace’ as it was for Claudia’s), she simply couldn’t. No, she _wouldn’t_. Artie couldn’t get away with thinking that it was okay to just flagrantly override Helena’s superior training, her skills, her life and experience in the very place they were going, every last cell in her body screaming out that she was the perfect choice for this. It wasn’t okay for him to just ignore all of that... and it sure as hell wasn’t okay for him to use Claudia as an unconscious pawn in the cold head-games that he was playing.

It wasn’t fair, on any of them, and, for all of her best intentions, Myka could not simply sit idly by and let that stand.

“Artie,” she said, choosing her words and her tone very carefully. “Don’t you think there’s someone a little bit more qualified for a mission based in London?” It was as gentle as she could make it, but she still had to turn her face away, for fear of watching Claudia’s face fall as the truth of what was happening landed; still, though she couldn’t see it, she could feel the air turn colder as the excitement ran away from her, and that was more than painful enough. “No offence, Claud...”

“Yeah,” Claudia mumbled, completely deflated in less than a heartbeat. “No... y’know... none taken. It’s cool, y’know, you’re right. She _is_ more British than me, after all. Kinda. I mean, I guess. But I could so do that accent.”

Myka didn’t need to look at her face to know the sort of look she’d find there, kicked-puppy disappointment waging war across her too-expressive features with the bitter-tasting fact that Myka’s point was a valid one. She understood, of course she did – now that it had been pointed out, Myka knew that she was smart enough to know exactly why Artie was doing this, and to realise that it had nothing whatsoever to do with her – but that didn’t make it any less painful to suddenly find herself caught in the crossfire, to suddenly see that the leap of faith she’d been so excited about was actually a thinly-veiled shot at hurting someone else. Myka’s heart ached almost as much to feel Claudia’s delirious joy wither and die as it did to see the barely-concealed frustration darkening Helena’s eyes, growing more and more excruciating with every word that passed between everyone else, the crushing sorrow at being kept away from the one place above and beyond all others where they all knew she would be able to prove her worth once and for all.

“I’m sure Artie has his reasons,” she offered diplomatically, but her feigned politeness didn’t carry its usual conviction.

“Oh, I’m sure he does too,” Myka spat, unguardedly cutting.

Apparently having heard enough, Claudia lurched to her feet. By necessity of the sudden motion caught in the corner of her eye, Myka turned back to look at her, though she still tried to keep from meeting her gaze directly.

“Artie,” she said; she was still mumbling, like all the wind had been knocked out of her. “Maybe she’s right. HG’s way better at this stuff than me. I mean, like, she’s way, way, _way_ better. And she knows the area, right? And... and, uh...”

She trailed off pitifully, but Myka could hear the unspoken _‘...and I don’t want to cause any trouble’_ hanging heavy on the air, a solid weight ready to drop. Claudia was perfectly content to wreak any kind of chaos she could find, Myka knew (and, usually, the more chaotic, the better), but only when it came on her own terms. She didn’t react well to being used or manipulated, shaped and bent to fit someone else’s whims; there were too many open wounds there, Myka supposed, burns and welts left over from the life she’d left behind but never quite managed to shake off, and she could practically taste the young woman’s fear, gritty and bitter, on her own tongue.

“Please,” Artie snorted, throwing up both hands and glaring at Helena like this was all her fault simply for having the audacity to exist, like she’d somehow made him behave this way. “You’re all acting like I’m going to throw the woman back into the bronze sector as soon as your backs are turned.” He paused for a moment or two, expression cloudy and hazy, like he was deliberating whether he could get away with that, then pressed on in a rush, waving his arms about like a man possessed. “I do intent to make use of her talents, you know. I’m not completely unreasonable.”

“That’s still open to debate...” Myka muttered under her breath.

“I heard that.” Presumably as a means of keeping his hands occupied, he grabbed a cookie from the plate (and by so doing, alienating himself from Pete, his only possible remaining ally in this whole mess), and, stopping to take an oversized bite, waved it at Myka’s face like it was a fully-charged Tesla. “If you would have let me finish,” he pressed, spraying crumbs, “you would have learned that I have plans for her as well.”

“Excellent!” Helena said, with no enthusiasm whatsoever. “More delightful inventory, I hope...”

“Very funny,” Artie snapped. Then, with obvious relish, he pulled a second set of paperwork seemingly out of nowhere and threw it at her; the obvious disappointment on his face when she caught it expertly (one-handed, no less) without so much as blinking was almost worth the whole drama, and Myka bit down on a proud smirk as Artie muttered something that sounded decidedly like _‘show-off’_ under his breath, and whirled around to glare at Pete. “You two will be going to Boston.”

“What!?” Pete spluttered, indignant in a refreshingly good-natured kind of way. “How come they get London, and we get crappy-ass Beantown?”

It was typically Pete, and Myka found her breath catching in her throat with affection. Pete didn’t care about the politics of the situation, all of the drama and the stupidity and the madness that seemed to have overtaken everyone else in the room. All he cared about was that there were two mission destinations, and he wanted the cool one. Nothing else mattered to him; he didn’t care whether he was sent there with Myka or Claudia or HG, or anyone else. All he wanted was to do his job and have fun doing it, and to hell with everything else. Myka was never more grateful for having Pete Lattimer as her partner than she was in moments like this one.

Artie, by contrast, seemed to have no patience for Pete and his juvenile shenanigans just then, and dismissed him with a furious glare. “Because I’m in charge. That’s why.”

He didn’t add _‘and because I don’t trust that woman with Myka or Claudia’_ , though she could tell he that was thinking it. This wasn’t just about keeping Helena away from her homeland, though she had no doubt that he was drawing some twisted pleasure from seeing her struggling to keep up a positive air of dignity about that when she was so obviously hurt. No, she realised. So much more than that, it was also about keeping her away from people he was afraid she might influence.

Artie had never made any pretences about his belief that Myka had been compromised, that the wily HG Wells had worked some kind of literary feminist magic on her and sucked her into her thrall. He’d never said it, of course, but she could tell he was thinking it; for all that he played his subtlety well enough when they discussed it, the look on his face made his feelings on the subject clear. And this was another nail in the coffin he was so desperately trying to get buried. He was taking great relish in separating them.

And, no doubt, he felt the same way about Claudia. Everyone knew how easily impressed Claudia was, and if Helena did have some kind of supernatural charisma, there was no doubt in any of their minds that she would be the first to succumb to it. No doubt Artie thought he was protecting her, keeping her safe from the imaginary threat that was the devil in their midst, but Myka knew better. It was cruel and unfair. On Helena, on Myka, on Claudia, and, not that he minded, on Pete.

It cut to the quick, and Myka felt her blood run even hotter than it already was.

“I can’t believe this!” she blurted out, aware of but ignoring the way that Helena was coughing delicately, the way that Claudia was whimpering at the prospect of a looming fight, even the way that Leena was gently saying her name in a futile bid at calming her. “No, I’m serious! I know you can be petty sometimes, Artie... and you’ve made no secret of how you feel about HG being here in the first place... but this is just plain vindictive.”

“Myka...” Helena murmured; she was doing an impressive job of hiding her disappointment from the others, but she wasn’t fooling Myka for a second. “There will be a great many other opportunities for me to go home to my dear London... _after_ I’ve proven myself here. Artie is perfectly justified in being cautious, and I thank him for any task he’s willing to assign me, whether it be in England or in Boston, or in the Warehouse. Every assignment is a step forward, and I am grateful for the opportunity.”

“That’s crap!” Myka argued. “You know he’s just being spiteful!”

Helena bowed her head, but didn’t offer any verbal response, no doubt knowing that it wouldn’t do either of them any good. At any rate, her shadowed eyes said what her lips could not, speaking without sound: _‘then let us not give him the satisfaction of seeing us spited’_.

Furious but unable to contend that point, Myka shut her mouth.

Artie sighed, sounding genuinely exhausted. For all his pettiness, all his vindictive cruelty, he suddenly looked very old. “Does anyone else have any questions?”

“I got one!” Pete announced. His gaze darted nervously about the room, from Artie to Myka to Claudia to Helena and back again, before finally settling on Leena with a waifish little grin. “You got any more of those chocolate chip things?”


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t exactly a promising start for a new sort-of apprentice-slash-field-agent type person to be constantly zoning out during a Crucial And Important Mission Briefing (TM), but Claudia figured, in the light of all the drama and other crap that they’d just been subjected to, it was maybe a little understandable.

Not that any of the others were really in any state of mind to notice whether she was paying attention to them or not, anyway. Myka was too busy glaring at Artie, Artie was too busy glaring at HG, and HG was too busy trying not to make eye-contact with anyone at all. That part, at least, Claudia could definitely relate to. In fact, she couldn’t help thinking that, had HG just thought to ask, she herself could have given some pretty awesome pointers on that particular subject. She was, after all, a pretty well-renowned expert on failing at all kinds of human contact, and HG had a whole century of social awkwardness to catch up on.

Pete, by contrast, was busily engaged in testing how many cookies he could subtly steal from the plate before Leena started to yell at him. And Leena, of course, being arguably the least important person in the room at that particular moment, except for Claudia herself, was also the only one who was actually paying the least amount of attention.

From what little listening she did do, Claudia managed to glean a bit. Their mission – which is to say, Myka’s mission and Claudia’s inevitably failed learning experience in nifty accents and foreign etiquette – was a pretty simple one. Well, at least, by her meagre understanding of the words ‘simple’ and ‘mission’. Not nearly simple enough to justify Artie picking her over HG, of course, but simple enough that Claudia could probably be at least three per cent confident that she probably wasn’t going to inexplicably almost die again.

So, the four-one-one on the whole dealio was this: some genius at the British Museum (seriously, Britland? naming a museum after yourselves? really?) was putting on some huge-ass exhibition about some royalty or something, and Artie in his infinite wisdom suspected that one of their artefacts was... well, an _artefact_. An actual for-real artefact, that is, not just the old-junk-for-old-British-folks-to-go-‘ooh’-at kind.

Ergo, the mission (should they choose to accept it) was to intercept the exhibitioning process, whatever the hell that was, catch sight of the artefact, if it was even there at all, and then snag and bag and tag it like good Warehouse agents – and home in time for tea!

If not for the circumstances, it would have been epic. A free trip to an exotic land to shadow Myka while she pwned the ever-loving hell out of royal artefacts? Hell to the yes, please. Except, of course, it was kind of tainted now, what with all the drama, and the horrible way that everyone was looking at everyone else and not really listening to anyone, and the look on HG’s face as she tried so freaking hard to not look totally crushed.

And... well, yeah. Claudia knew it wasn’t her fault, she really did, but it still stung. A whole freakin’ lot. Because she hadn’t asked for this, and yet she’d got it, and for five whole seconds, she’d been so inexpressibly psyched about it, so excited she could barely breathe... but now HG was looking around the room like someone had just run over her puppy, and Claudia kind of felt like she was that someone, or maybe possibly the car that someone had used to do the deed, ’cause it wasn’t exactly her fault, but she was still the thing that had run the puppy over, only she didn’t have any words and she couldn’t say she was sorry because she’d only done what someone else had made her do.

Not that any of that mattered right now. This was a mission briefing, at least in theory, not a puppy’s funeral, and so Claudia forced herself to think about the folder in her hands, how heavy it was, and how its contents weren’t really meant for her.

Besides, it wasn’t like she had any time to dwell on it anyway, because Artie didn’t even pause for breath once he was finished with her and Claudia. He just moved right on to Pete and HG’s assignment (or, more accurately going by the way he was talking, Pete’s assignment and HG’s third-wheel-ness) without so much as a segue. He didn’t even pause to steal the last remaining cookie... and so, observing the way Pete was eyeing it, Claudia decided to remove the distraction by snagging it for herself.

“Not cool!” Pete complained. “I was just gonna go for that!”

“You snooze, you lose, Lattimer,” Claudia shot back, and stuffed the cookie into her mouth whole, just to be malicious.

Artie rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have some packing to do?”

Claudia frowned, caught between confusion and offence. “Don’tcha want us to sit in on Pete and HG’s briefing?” she asked, trying not to sound as enthusiastic about the idea as she actually was. “What if something goes wrong and we need to bail ’em out? How can we do that if we don’t know what—”

“Myka can sit in,” Artie said flatly, cutting her off before she could launch into another minute-long stream of unending babble. “And, should a situation arise where you need to know – _if_ , Claudia! – then she can brief you.” He rolled his eyes, then, and his eyebrows went up in a way that she recognised as pre-empting a chastisement. “But _someone_ in this room takes an hour to decide how many pairs of impractical boots to pack whenever they leave the house. And that someone needs to go to their room now, so they can have their delinquent, timer-destroying little butt ready in time to catch a plane. Because someone else in this room spent a long time arranging flights, and that someone has no intention of rescheduling them.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Claudia muttered sulkily.

“Go!” Artie yelled. “Now! And don’t let the door hit you...” He gestured wildly at it, then added, as a second thought, “...again.”

Claudia opened her mouth to protest that, but Leena restrained her with a gentle hand on her arm and a smile that made it utterly impossible to argue. “C’mon, Claudia. I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Claudia grumbled, but she let herself be dragged away just the same, because it was better than listening to Myka and Artie fighting over HG, and way, way better than listening to Pete grouse about how she’d stolen his cookie.

Characteristically overbearing, Leena stuck around. Claudia told her, repeatedly, that she really didn’t need any help in the packing department, regardless of what Artie had said (and how old did these people think she was, really?), but her protests were shot down, in turn by patient head-shaking and condescending chuckling, and in the end she just gave up on trying to fight it. Leena was relentless when she wanted to invade someone’s privacy, and Claudia always seemed to be her favourite pet for that particular task.

“Don’t let them get to you,” she told her, leaning casually against the door-frame as Claudia stalked into her room and flopped carelessly on the bed, looking up with a pointed scowl, the whole an open challenge to the other woman to insist that she do what Artie said and start packing. Which, of course, she didn’t, because Leena never did what Claudia wanted her to do, only what she didn’t.

“I wasn’t,” Claudia shot back, already feeling the anger start to bleed out. “They can do what they want. I don’t care.”

Leena sighed. “You do.”

“Oh, shut up.”

She didn’t, of course. “You feel like they’re taking your moment away from you,” she said instead, soft and sympathetic, like she genuinely believed that Claudia actually wanted to hear it. “You feel like you should be excited for your first overseas mission, that you’re supposed to feel like Artie’s trusting you with something that matters... but instead, you feel like he’s using you to make a point.”

Claudia buried her face under a pillow. “It’s really annoying when you do that,” she said, the cranky irritation muffled.

“You say that a lot,” Leena replied, not missing a beat; her saccharine cheerfulness dug into Claudia’s nerves, but she refused to say anything about it. “But only ever when I’m right.”

Sensing that ignoring this particular problem wouldn’t be enough to make it go away, Claudia tossed the pillow to one side and sat up. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Does it matter?”

“It shouldn’t,” Leena replied, with a kindness that was so sincere that it made Claudia’s chest ache with conflict at how much she hated it. “But it does to you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Claudia insisted; the look on Leena’s face told her she was wasting her breath, though, and she gave up, lurching up off the bed and rooting around for an overnight bag so that she wouldn’t have to look at her. “Okay, fine. Yeah, it does. Everyone knows HG should be going on that mission, not me. Myka knows it, and she’s pissed. HG knows it, and she’s upset. Pete knows it, and he... okay, so he doesn’t care too much, but he’s not exactly thrilled about having to go to Boston with HG either, so that counts too.” She threw the first pseudo-functional bag she could find onto the bed – neon pink and orange, and way too big – and emptied her entire sock drawer into it. “Everyone knows, Leena.”

“And you think they’ll resent you for it,” Leena added, a soft-spoken suggestion. Hating her more and more with every passing second, Claudia bit her tongue and grimaced. “You think HG will resent you for taking her place... and you think Myka will resent you for being there when she wants HG there instead.”

“Maybe,” Claudia muttered; it wasn’t really a confession, but it was as close to one as Leena would ever get out of her.

“But they won’t,” Leena said. “They respect you, Claudia, and they understand the position Artie’s put you in. Myka’s angry at Artie, not at you. And HG is upset at the situation as a whole, not the fact that you were chosen for a mission that she wanted for herself. Neither of them blame you for it, and neither of them are angry or upset with _you_.”

Claudia stopped herself just before she emptied her underwear drawer into the bag as well, realising that there would be no room for boots and jewellery if she continued with this particular line of packing, and tentatively removed a couple of pairs of socks. “This is all so screwed up and stupid...” she sighed, and she wasn’t just talking about the lack of space.

“It is,” Leena agreed; for a moment, she sounded strangely sad. “And it’s not fair that you’re stuck in the middle of it.”

“Forget it,” Claudia snapped, losing her temper a little as she remembered that, even with the decreased volume of socks, she still needed to find space for her laptop. “Just... whatever. I don’t care. And I gotta finish packing before Artie yells at me for that too, and then Myka gets mad at me ’cause I’m using up all of our baggage allowance, and then Pete tries to get me kicked out of the Warehouse ’cause he thinks I’m tryin’ to smuggle cookies out of the country, and I just... I need to do that now, Leena, okay? I need to do what they told me to do. So can you just drop all this ‘talking’ crap, and just go away?”

For a second or two, it looked like Leena was going to push, like she so often did, digging in with all her sharp-clawed good intentions until Claudia had no choice but to surrender to every word that she said. But she didn’t. Maybe she realised that now really wasn’t the right time for it, or else maybe she sensed that Claudia wasn’t going to listen to her right now no matter how hard she pressed, or perhaps she was hearing Artie’s voice in the back of her mind insisting that she just let the little delinquent get packed before he had to deal with the flight issue. Whatever the reason, though, the end result remained the same: she finally acquiesced to give up the fight and do as Claudia had asked.

“Okay...” she said quietly. “I’ll be around, if you need me.”

“Not gonna happen,” Claudia muttered as the door closed.

The solitude that followed brought with it a painful reminder of the fact that Artie might have possibly maybe been right about her inability to pack. At least, on a practical level, not that she had any intention of letting him know that; the problem was, there were too many things that she needed, and not enough space for them all in a single overnight bag (even in a really, really big one). And that wasn’t her fault, it was just an inherent and fundamental flaw in the overall planning system of... well, whoever the hell decided on what ‘overnight’ would mean.

It was about half an hour before she managed to cut down all the stuff that she absolutely positively needed to a quantity that would (hopefully) not give Artie a heart attack, and nearly another half-hour on top of that to try and get it all to fit into the bag. She was in the process of waging war against the bag’s zipper (what was the point of making a bag that fit everything in if the stupid thing just refused to shut, anyway?) when she heard a tentative knock at the door, and the jolt of surprise made her jump so hard that the bag fell from the bed, and all its carefully-packed contents spilled out onto the floor.

“Dammit!” she howled, not bothering to keep the frustration from her voice. “Leena, if that’s you, I swear I’m gonna...”

“Fear not.” The voice was unmistakeably HG’s, and Claudia felt a hot flush creeping up her neck in spite of herself. “It’s just me, and I assure you I come in peace.” A pause, just long enough for Claudia to remember how to control her breathing, then, “In fact, I come bearing gifts.”

Cautious but curious, Claudia abandoned her doomed feint at packing and crossed over to the door. “Gifts?” she echoed squeakily.

“Well, ‘gift’, singular,” HG confessed, then added hesitantly, “It is, admittedly, _from_ Leena... but, since the lady herself isn’t here in person, do I have your permission to enter?”

“I guess,” Claudia replied, more nervous than indifferent.

Without thinking, she leaped like an Olympic diver onto the pile of spilled clothing, and set to work frantically trying to shove it all back into the bag before HG could enter and see how much of a walking disaster she really was. It was the last thing either of them needed, she was pretty sure, for HG to see for herself just how inept her replacement was. Bad enough that she was ill-suited for the mission, but to have to walk in and see that she was ill-suited even to just get ready for it? The mere thought was enough to cause another blush, only this one was entirely different. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her... or, failing that, to open up and throw out a really believable explanation.

She was so distracted by this, so preoccupied by the unimportant superfluous, that she didn’t really notice the fact that HG was trying to talk to her.

“I’m not entirely certain what its primary function is,” she was saying, “but Leena tells me it’s something to do with—”

“Raccoon!” Claudia yelped, oblivious, and gestured crazily at the window in a futile attempt to cover over the remaining evidence of her packing fiasco. “It wasn’t me! It was this... this epic, giant, evil raccoon! It came in through the window, messed everything up, and then ran away again. I was completely ready, like, so totally in control, and it just kind of... did I mention the part where it was giant?”

HG stared at her as though she’d completely lost her mind. Which, Claudia mused embarrassedly, wasn’t implausible at this point.

Realising that she was doing very little to justify the state she’d got herself into, and probably a great deal to convince HG that she wasn’t capable of doing anything at all ever, Claudia decided to switch tactics, playing it cool, acting like it was a perfectly normal thing for a 21st-century human to do, yelling about raccoons and trying not to hyperventilate while in the presence of nineteenth-century literary idols.

“Anyway...” she said, folding her arms, and promptly losing her balance. “What’d you get me? And why couldn’t Leena have brought it herself?”

“I suspect she was busy,” HG shrugged. “Or perhaps she simply wanted to give us an excuse to talk before you leave.”

“She’s sneaky like that,” Claudia sighed, righting herself and going back to the task of putting her things back into the bag (or, more accurately, trying to unravel the giant knot of clothes and shoelaces that her things had turned into, and ideally without losing her balance again). “I mean, yeah, she’s all ‘good intentions’ and all that stuff, but jeez, can’t she just back off for like five frackin’ seconds?”

HG chuckled wanly. “She’s well-meaning, darling. And she does care a great deal about you. You’re quite fortunate.”

“Whatever,” Claudia muttered, distracted by the way she’d found herself inexplicably trapped in a mutant tangle of her unmentionables. “I get it, she means well. Now, what did you...” She bit off a curse as her balance deserted her once again and she toppled over, “...bring me?”

For a moment, HG looked like she wanted to point out the severity of Claudia’s state, but she seemed to think better of it, and closed the space between them with her usual unfathomable poise and grace. Naturally, she didn’t miss a beat as she knelt beside the younger woman, lithe and languid as a freakin’ gymnast, and Claudia was torn between protesting that she had everything under control and just blushing helplessly once again as HG tenderly extricated her from the demonic mass of clothing.

That done, HG at long last turned her attention to the gift that she had been commissioned to bring in the first place. “Leena tells me that it’s for your computer...” she said, and handed over an international power adapter. Claudia couldn’t figure out whether to be thankful for the thought, or disappointed that it wasn’t something a little less boring. “Apparently, my country doesn’t take kindly to electrical surges imported from yours?”

“That’s right,” Claudia affirmed, taking it and idly tossing it from one hand to the other. “But I already have one of these.”

_...and Leena so totally knows that,_ she added silently.

“I see,” HG hummed. She looked contemplative, biting the corners of her lips and staring at the device, as if wordlessly begging for a chance to play with it. Claudia, understanding that impulse completely, handed it over for her to study. HG let out a delighted little squeal, then added, in distracted defence of the absent innkeeper, “Ah well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“I guess.” Claudia shrugged, still dubious; she knew Leena’s methods far too well by now to think she hadn’t planned this whole thing. So, then, she supposed, she might as well make use of the time given, and swallowed hard, bracing herself for what she wanted to say. “Um, hey... HG... while I got you here...”

As attentive as she was to her shiny new plaything, HG merely grunted out an ambivalent acknowledgement of the fact that she was being addressed, then went back to examining the adapter from all angles, shaking and studying it like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen in her whole entire life.

Thinking about it, Claudia supposed it was probably for the best that HG was distracted. She wasn’t exactly the most proficient person in the world when it came to human conversation, even at the best of times, and even less so when it involved someone like HG freakin’ Wells (and less so even than that when she was simultaneously fighting off a lambaste from all sides courtesy of her own damn clothing). At least, if HG was preoccupied with the wonders of modern technology, Claudia stood maybe half a chance of getting out a word or two before the panic set in.

“Look, uh...” She swallowed again, this time closer to a gulp. “I’m... I kind of... that is... dude, HG, I’m... I’m really sorry about the whole... y’know, the whole ‘mission-ninja’ thing. I didn’t... I’d never... I don’t... I mean...” She shut her eyes tight, forced herself to breathe in deep, tried not to think about how horribly she was failing at this and focus instead on her intentions, on the honesty of what she was feeling. “I just... uh... I’m so sorry. I know you really wanted that mission, and we both know you would’ve been totally awesome out there... and I think we kind of both know that I’m gonna be... y’know... not so awesome at all. So... uh... I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, and I just... like...” She closed her eyes, then blurted out in a single breath, “...please don’t hate me?”

With a low sigh, HG finally looked up from the adapter. Her eyes were dark, shadowy, and Claudia felt awful for making them go that colour when they should have been filled with happiness at being allowed to play with take apart something new. “Claudia,” she said, and the name sounded something like a reprimand. “Darling, nobody is blaming you for being trusted with this mission.” Unwavering, she met Claudia’s shaky gaze. “Myself least of all.”

“I know,” Claudia blurted, then caught her breath. “I mean, I get it’s not about... like, it’s not really about, y’know, _me_. I get that... and, uh... I know it’s not like I even asked for it or anything...” She trailed off, grimacing at how pitiful she sounded, and how much worse she knew she was going to get before she got to the end of the sentence... assuming that she ever did. Still, though, she pressed on, because she still felt bad, and she could tell that HG did too. “I just... I get how much you’re hurting over it... y’know, not being allowed to go. And it just... it just really, really sucks that you...” Her voice cracked, sharp and pitchy. “It just sucks. And I’m sorry that it sucks.”

HG smiled; it was bittersweet, laced with a carefully concealed shade of pain, but at the same time sincere and rich with honest warmth. “You’re a very sweet girl, Claudia...” she said, and her voice was so rough with the words, so heavy with them, that Claudia’s heart almost broke out of her chest to hear them. “You have nothing to apologise for, of course, but I appreciate the gesture. You are incredibly thoughtful to go to such pains to try and ease mine, however unnecessarily.”

She touched Claudia’s arm, and Claudia promptly dropped all the clothes she’d finally started gathering back together.

“But I suppose...” HG went on, pointedly ignoring the flagrant display of clumsiness, and holding the adapter up to the light again. Her eyes were bright again, and Claudia felt her warmth suffusing the whole room. “If you must insist upon making amends for imagined slights, you could always make it up to me by explaining how this wretched device works.”

Her internal guilt quickly forgotten (and with it the necessity of getting packed in time for the flight), Claudia beamed.

It was the best part of an hour – the unfortunate adapter having been taken apart and put back together at least four separate times – before another knock on the door made Claudia suddenly aware of how late it was, and how well-packed she was not. The sound of Myka’s voice sent her into paroxysms, and, for about the thousandth time that day, bits of dissected tech went scattering all over the floor.

“Claud?” Myka called from the other side of the door, clearly oblivious to what was happening within the room. “You ready to go?”

“Uh...” Claudia squeaked, looking helplessly around at the chaos that littered every inch of available floor space – adapter pieces, wires, clothes, and the overturned overnight bag. “Uh, sure. Yeah! Of course I’m ready. What kind of question even is that? I am so totally ready, you can’t handle how ready I am.” Seemingly unable to help herself, HG burst out laughing, and Claudia whined. “Just... uh... err, could you maybe give me, like... five more minutes?”

On the other side of the door, she heard Myka huff a sigh, impatient but also a bit amused. “I don’t suppose HG is in there with you?” she demanded, in a voice that made it perfectly clear that she already knew the answer.

HG put on an expression of faux-horror. Claudia, by contrast, was feeling very actual horror, and whimpered a pitiful little “...no?”

She could practically hear Myka rolling her eyes. “Well,” she sighed. “If you ‘see’ her, tell her to stop distracting you.”

Claudia nodded guiltily, not realising until the gesture was met with acute silence that Myka probably couldn’t see it through the door. “Uhm...” she forced out, the tiny sound coming with considerable effort. “...sure.”

For her part, and somewhat predictably (much to Claudia’s ever-rising terror), HG was neither so inarticulate nor so acceptant of the delicacy of the situation.

“Why, Agent Bering,” she purred cheerfully at the door. “I wholly resent the implication that I would ever in any way deign to influence this impressionable young—”

“Oh my God, HG!” Claudia wailed, utterly mortified.

“I wouldn’t exactly call either of you ‘impressionable’,” Myka pointed out dryly from beyond the door, then seemed to catch herself. “But if you must insist on distracting her, could you at least help her finish packing while you’re doing it? We do have a plane to catch, you know...” HG grunted her assent, and Claudia let out a breath in the half-second before she realised that Myka wasn’t finished with her yet. “And, for the love of _anything_ , Claud, please remember to pack more than just socks and spare cables this time...”

Claudia stared at the array of spilled socks, and bit down on her lip. “Please,” she grunted, all forced in-control coolness. "Like I’d do that again. Honestly, Myka, have a little faith, yeah?”

Thankfully, HG stepped in before Myka could respond to that. “Worry not, my lady,” she promised. “I’ll make sure that she’s suitably prepared for the trials and tribulations of my native country. Just leave her in my capable hands.”

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Myka groaned. Still, the promise seemed to mollify her a bit, and Claudia heaved a sigh of relief at the sound of backtracking footsteps, even as they were followed a heartbeat later by a receding and pointed echo of _“five minutes, Claudia...”_.

“I’m never gonna be ready in five minutes,” she whined, when it was safe. “Not even if your time machine still worked and we could go back and do it again properly. Like, not even if—”

“Relax, dear child,” HG smiled. “You’ll be ready.”

Blessedly, for someone who was a hundred years outside of her comfort zone, HG was a pretty awesome packer. Or, well, it was kind of possible that Claudia was just so monumentally terrible at it that even a hundred-and-fifty-year-old borderline-murderer was bound to seem awesome by comparison. It was a kind of coin-toss, which one of the two was closer to the real truth of it, but either way, Claudia’s room was once again bearing the face of an actual room occupied by humans by the time the requisite five minutes were up, and the brightly-coloured overnight bag that had caused her so much trouble was duly packed up and ready to go – and with room to spare for souvenirs! Claudia couldn’t figure out how it had happened.

“When you live as long as I have...” HG chuckled, when she’d finally picked her jaw up off the floor for long enough to ask the question out loud, “...you learn a thing or two.”

For about ten seconds, Claudia really couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Unfortunately, in her case, not being able to think of anything to say was seldom a good enough reason to keep her from opening her mouth regardless, and before she had a chance to hold her tongue, she heard her own voice crack through the air between them. “You’re so awesome, HG.”

“Oh, stop,” HG cooed demurely. “You flatterer.”

“Nuh uh,” Claudia argued, characteristically erudite. “Just... like, you didn’t have to help me. You didn’t even have to talk to me at all after all that crap with Artie and the mission and everything... and I know you say it’s not my fault, and I know it kind of mostly isn’t, really... but, y’know, you still could’ve held a grudge if you’d wanted to. Y’know, I’d’ve got that. I would’ve, and I wouldn’t have blamed you or anything. But you didn’t. You were cool with it, even though you didn’t have to be. And you didn’t... you definitely didn’t have to help me with all this stuff, y’know, you could’ve just... you could’ve...”

She trailed off, shaking her head, and desperately hoped that the pricking behind her eyes was just allergies.

“...but you did. You did help, and you saved my butt, like, _again_... and it’s... and I... I don’t even know how you even managed to do it, dude, but you did and I don’t... I don’t know how to even...” She was getting tongue-tied, like she so often did, tripping up over her own words, and she knew that, if she let herself continue, she’d just devolve into nonsense sounds pitched so high that only dogs would be able to hear her, so she just gave up. “Just, y’know. You are awesome. And... y’know... thanks.”

“It was my pleasure, darling,” HG said, and she sounded so sincere, so raw and honest that Claudia had no choice but to believe her, really and truly and completely.

Maybe it was the accent, she thought. She wasn’t really used to people from exotic countries making small-talk at all, much less teaching her the right way to fold her underwear or how many pairs of socks was absolutely necessary for a trip abroad. And, okay, so maybe Artie had kind of been right when he’d accused her of always seeing the best in people. Maybe she really was just some kind of stupid, cock-eyed optimist, blind to whatever it was that Artie was still holding against HG, but she simply couldn’t _not_ believe her. Seeing her face, hearing the lilt to her voice... all of her so nurturing, so kind and compassionate and perfect and _HG_... it wrapped her up like a blanket, and she was lost to it.

And, even if she really was deluded, she realised, she was actually kind of okay with that. If she was – _if_ , Artie! – then so too was Myka, and there was a pretty huge part of Claudia that couldn’t help thinking it was sort of okay if she got led astray, so long as Myka did too. Myka was awesome as well, every bit as much as HG, if in a different way, and if even she could get sucked into the thrall of something that was supposedly evil... well, then maybe it wasn’t so unforgivable that Claudia was too.

But mostly, far more than wanting to guard against being the only dumbass to not see stuff for what it was, she trusted Myka’s judgement. She really, really did. Like, unconditionally. She had faith – real, absolute faith – that, if Myka saw something good and honest and true in HG, that meant it was there. If Myka, who had seen the goodness in Claudia, who had trusted her when she’d had no reason to, could see the same sort of thing in HG, then Claudia believed, and believed with all her heart and soul, that it was there.

“We should go,” HG murmured after a moment, apparently sensing that Claudia was getting tangled up in a knot of her own thoughts, and evidently not willing to let that happen. “We wouldn’t want to keep Myka waiting. Not after I gave my word to make an honest woman of you.”

Suddenly feeling painfully self-conscious, Claudia looked at the floor. She wanted to thank HG again, to tell her that she appreciated the help, and the forgiveness, and everything else, but she couldn’t get her throat to make even a little sound. And besides, she’d said everything she’d wanted to, and hadn’t been able to make it make the least bit of sense, so what chance did she have of pulling it off a second time?

And so, because the silence was already threatening to turn awkward if she didn’t do or say something soon, she lurched clumsily forward and gave HG a hug.

Briefly, it seemed as though HG didn’t know what to do with that. She stood ramrod straight, surprisingly tense for someone who was so laid back so much of the time, and it was a very long moment before she seemed to realised that there wasn’t any ulterior motive to the hug, that it simply was what it was, inarticulable emotion spilled over into physicality, Claudia’s heart poured out through her arms because that was all she could do.

She didn’t return it, though Claudia could tell that she wanted to. Her muscles were tight, flexing unconsciously in toned arms in a bid at keeping them locked at her sides when all they wanted to do was wrap themselves around the young woman who was so quick to offer the same. She held herself in check, though, and after a couple of beats, she finally raised her hands to take Claudia firmly but gently by the shoulders and give her a little push.

Taking the hint for once, Claudia took a couple of sheepish steps back, releasing the older woman with a shy little grin and a mumbled, “Sorry, HG.”

“Don’t apologise, darling,” HG told her, and she looked a little sad. Not upset, exactly, just kind of sorrowful, and Claudia ached to understand why. “Sweet Claudia, you apologise so much, and for so little.”

“I don’t mean to,” Claudia said, feeling herself getting flustered all over again. “It’s just, you’re... well... y’know... you...”

“Claudia,” HG said; she was still speaking softly, just as she always did, but there was a weight behind her voice now, a solid strength that held Claudia by the throat and forced her to heed the words. “I don’t take well to high places, so perhaps you should find another idol for your pedestal.”

“I don’t...” Claudia started weakly, and trailed off.

“You’re a sweet, darling child,” HG said, and the heat rushed once more to Claudia’s cheeks. “And I thoroughly enjoy your company. I’m deeply touched – flattered, even – by your enthusiasm, and by how hard you’re trying to make me feel appreciated and respected, even in the face of... certain differing opinions, shall we say, in that area.” She smiled, dazzling. “Make no mistake, Claudia, I am exceptionally grateful for your hospitality.” In a moment, the smile was gone, and she was suddenly all quiet dignity and British politeness. “But darling, I’m sure you’ll agree that neither of us can afford the distraction of _affection_.”

Claudia could feel the heat of her eyes on her, studying, trying to figure out whether she was breaking through or simply making her sad. She wanted to reassure her, to say that she was a big girl and she could handle anything, but the words could no more come now than they had before, and all she could do was gaze up at this woman, this living legend in her bedroom with wide, helpless eyes, and will herself to be tough.

“Friendship is a precious gift indeed, Claudia,” HG went on. “But seeking mine would only end badly for you.” She sighed, and Claudia could tell that what she was saying and what she was thinking were two very different things, even as she pressed on, driving her point home with the trump card that neither of them could beat, “And besides, I’m sure we can both agree that Artie wouldn’t let either of us out of the house again if he thought for a single moment that I was influencing you.”

Claudia studied her shoes in great detail. “Yeah.”

HG squeezed her shoulder, a quiet reassurance. “You have a remarkable spirit, Claudia. Sincerely. I look forward to working with you, once we’ve both proven our merit.” Claudia blushed again, and willed herself to meet HG’s smile, even as the older woman rushed purposefully onwards. “Come on now. I expect Myka will be foaming at the mouth awaiting our arrival.”

Myka was not foaming at the mouth, as it turned out, but Claudia suspected that was rather less the result of patience and more a bi-product of the fact that, when they found her, she was being lavished with boxes of Twizzlers (‘for the road’) by Leena. Still, her calmer state did little to keep her from running a cynical eye over Claudia when she saw her.

“You made it,” she observed, making a whole big show of checking her watch. “And with two whole seconds to spare.”

“Like there was any doubt,” Claudia shot back with faux smugness. “I got mad skills, Myka, you should know this by now.”

“Of course,” Myka said, unconvinced, then turned to HG. “So, did you do everything for her, or just ninety per cent of it?”

HG couldn’t keep the smile off her face, much to Claudia’s unvoiced annoyance. “You underestimate Miss Donovan’s prowess,” she said coolly (and there was that word again, _prowess_ , making Claudia’s knees buckle and her head spin). “She is quite the resourceful young lady, you know.”

“Mm,” Myka replied, raising a brow at each of them in turn. “And how much did she bribe you to say that about her?”

Claudia scowled. “I did not!” she cried, outraged. Then, realising that the unfounded accusation could potentially work in her favour, added quickly, “But, hey, if I had, that would so totally count as ‘resourceful’...”

Myka massaged her temples, already weary, and ultimately appealed to Leena. “Do you want to come instead?” she offered hopefully. “Please?”

For her part, Leena just laughed. “I’m sure Claudia will do just fine,” she said, then reached out to take the oversized and over-colourful overnight bag from the young lady in question. “Here,” she said. “Let me take that out to the car.”

Annoyed at the unburdening, Claudia opened her mouth to protest, but a single half-glance at the way Myka was looking at HG told her that they were looking for a minute or two to themselves. Claudia had no idea why, and she was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to know, either, but she took the hint, and dutifully tailed Leena outside to the waiting car. Not because she wanted to deal with any more of the woman than she absolutely had to, of course, but being told that her aura looked ‘nervous’ was kind of preferable to being stuck in the middle of Myka and HG when they were having a ‘moment’. Because, yeah, as comfortable as that position sounded in theory, Claudia was pretty damn sure that she couldn’t pull it off without blacking out, and she had suffered just about enough humiliation for one day. So, for what little it was worth, Leena was the best option.

“Excited?” she asked cheerfully when she noticed Claudia following behind her, and tossed the bag into the backseat with way more strength than her slight frame implied she’d have.

Claudia frowned at the question. As was so often the case when Leena was around (whether she did anything to incite the hostility or not), Claudia was practically itching for a fight. “Why do you always ask questions you already know the answers to?” she demanded, voice and posture all tight with false bravado and a hunger for verbal violence.

“Just making conversation,” Leena replied easily, and the fact that she was as unoffended as ever, regardless of how unnecessarily provocative her opponent tried to be, only made Claudia want to poke at her even more, if only she had the time or the ammunition.

“I’m gonna kick London’s ass,” she said instead, as matter-of-fact as she could manage in the hopes that Leena wouldn’t look too hard at the uneasiness lurking beneath.

Leena studied her for a moment or two, clearly debating whether to call her on the obvious bullshit, and thus invite the argument that Claudia was aching for, or else take the high ground and play along with the flagrant falsehood. Ultimately, and presumably for the sake of her own safety as much as a desire to keep the peace, she opted for the latter, and nodded her approval.

“I’m sure you will,” she said, sounding too sincere to be called on it, and then sobered in a way that didn’t match the conversation. “But be careful, okay?”

She sounded so suddenly serious, so far from her standard infuriatingly laid-back condescension that Claudia actually blinked and started. “Myka’s gonna be there too,” she reminded her. “They’re not, like, parachuting me into a foreign country all by myself or anything.” She raised one brow, just like Myka would have done. “Jeez, Leena, over-worry much?”

Leena chuckled warmly. “You love it.”

“Do not,” Claudia argued. “Stop that.”

She didn’t miss the way that Leena quickly busied herself with the unnecessary task of rearranging the bag to hide her rising smile. “Did HG give you that thing?” she asked, changing the subject like the master manipulator that she was.

“Oh yeah,” Claudia replied, leaping on the opportunity to throw out a challenge, even if it was only to the back of Leena’s head. “And you so totally knew I already had one.”

Characteristically, if annoyingly, Leena didn’t deny it. She didn’t confirm it either, at least not precisely, but Claudia knew the signs more than well enough by now to know the truth of it, and she rolled her eyes with well-practiced disgust.

“Oh my God, you are such a freakin’ meddler!”

“And you’re not complaining,” Leena told her.

“I would, if I didn’t have a plane to catch,” Claudia insisted, not entirely honestly, and jerked her head back towards the B&B. “C’mon, Myka! Jeez!” Annoyed, she turned back to Leena, a scowl on her face and both hands on her hips. “How long’s it take to say ‘goodbye’, anyway?”

“You have so much to learn,” Leena patronised calmly, and straightened up to pat her shoulder. “Have a great time, okay? Stay safe.”

That said, she sauntered off, hips swaying, and Claudia’s not-at-all-polite retaliation was blessedly lost to the empty air.


	4. Chapter 4

It didn’t surprise Myka very much at all that Claudia wasn’t the most comfortable air traveller in the world. What did surprise her, though, was the way that she didn’t even try to hide it.

By any standard of measurement, Claudia Donovan was hardly the most subtle human being in the world, but, even with evidence screaming out the facts at a thousand decibels, she was pretty consistent in trying to pretend that she was. Even when anyone within a hundred-mile radius could work out exactly what she was thinking (which was approximately 98.3% of the time, Myka calculated, on a good day), she still made an exaggerated display of trying to keep her runaway thoughts, if not quite hidden, at least outside the realm of ‘smash you over the head with a sledgehammer’... a display that would invariably fail on a monumental scale. She tried so hard to hide the things that everyone already knew about, and by so doing, often made them even more obvious than they already were.

Not this time, though, and the fact that she wasn’t even trying, that the doomed display of feigned subtlety was absent, was more than enough on its own to set alarm bells ringing in Myka’s head.

She’d been fine, or at least mostly fine, at the airport itself. A little bit nervous, maybe, and definitely far too hopped-up on caffeine (though Myka supposed that was probably more her own fault than Claudia’s; she really should have put her foot down after the third espresso), but otherwise all right. It wasn’t until they were actually boarding the plane that the latent discomfort made itself apparent, Claudia going rigid and catching a breath almost the precise second they crossed the threshold into the aircraft.

Knowing better than to broach the subject directly, Myka tried a more deflective tactic. “You’d think the Warehouse’s expense account would stretch to first class once in a while...” she said casually, and tried not to be too obvious in the way she tried to catch a glimpse of Claudia’s face to gauge her reaction.

It wasn’t much, as far as ice-breakers went, but it was the best she could think of, which wasn’t too bad given how surprised she was... and, besides, it seemed to do the trick just as well as anything else would have. A couple of steps ahead of her, keeping her face deliberately obscured, Claudia mustered a rough-edged chuckle, almost tripping over her own feet in the too-narrow aisle as they fumbled to reach their seats, and Myka could tell that she was rolling her eyes.

“Please, like Artie even believes in first class,” she replied, and promptly lowered her voice to a gravelly rasp in a poor (but admittedly entertaining) imitation of the man himself. “ _‘In my day, there was no first class! And everything was uphill! Even the downhill parts! You kids today, you don’t know how lucky you are! You and your airplanes and your complimentary peanuts! In my day, we would’ve had to swim the ocean! All by ourselves! Both ways!’_ ”

In spite of herself, Myka laughed at that. “You’re incorrigible.”

Claudia turned to face her, then, beaming like it was the biggest compliment she’d ever received in all her life, then bit down on her resurfacing unease as she studied their allocated seats. She looked very young all of a sudden, and very small, kind of like a little kid flying for the first time, and Myka actually had to remind herself that that wasn’t the case at all, that Claudia was a mostly-grown woman, that she’d done this before, that she was an apprenticed Warehouse agent, not a small child, even as Claudia contradicted the point by mumbling in a very tiny voice, “Can I... uh... can I sit next to the window?”

“Sure you can,” Myka replied, and took great care to smile in a way that didn’t give away any of her concerns. Then, keeping her voice even and steady, “Are you okay?”

Instantly on the defensive, Claudia folded her arms across her chest, her entire body going so tight it was a miracle the tendons didn’t snap. “Of course!” she blurted indignantly. “I’m fine. Jeez, Myka, it’s just a seat. It’s not like I asked for a million dollars. God.”

“Okay,” Myka said, speaking carefully, and making a point of not observing that the lady doth protest too much. “I was just asking, Claud, not accusing.”

Claudia clenched her teeth; she still looked uncomfortable, just shy of actually frightened, but her pride was beating her anxiety, at least for the time being. “This isn’t my first time in an airplane, you know.”

“I do know,” Myka affirmed with a wry chuckle. “The last time, if I recall correctly, you were running away from home.”

“Not my finest moment,” Claudia admitted sheepishly. “Point is, I’m not new at this. Okay, Myka? I’m not some lame stupid kid who’s never even been out of the country. You don’t need to, like, hold my hand when we take off or anything.” She raised her head, and Myka couldn’t help admiring her bravado, even as she wasn’t the least bit convinced by it. “I’ve got this crap down, yo.”

“I’m sure you do,” Myka said, lips quirking with good-natured amusement. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Claud. You just looked a little anxious, that’s all. You know, like you...” She pondered for a moment, searching for something believable. “Like you forgot something.”

That was, of course, not the case at all (though it was probably a valid concern just the same), but Myka knew from endless experience that Claudia would respond more favourably to the lie than the truth, and so she swallowed down the bitter taste of dishonesty and just ran with it for the greater good.

“It’s not a big deal,” Claudia muttered, and by the surrender in her eyes Myka knew that she had her. “It’s just...” She sighed, gathering her strength and looking down, avoiding anything that could be described as ‘contact’ before summoning the courage to say it. “I just don’t like feeling like I’m _trapped_ , okay? And this thing... it’s just, like, a great big giant freakin’ tin-can... and there’s... like... you can’t get outta here once you’re up there, y’know... like, you can’t even crack a window or anything, and I don’t... I...” She trailed off, seemingly catching herself mid-stream and realising how much she’d said. “Whatever. It’s nothing, okay? It’s not a big deal, so just drop it.”

The revelation, such as it was, wasn’t exactly a surprise (really, it wasn’t very far at all from what Myka had been expecting to hear), but something about the rough-edged quaver in Claudia’s voice – helplessness mingling with a desperate shot at bravado, overlaid with the kind of fear that simply wouldn’t be hidden – sent a bolt of sympathy arcing through her, quick and precise as lighting and almost as startling.

She touched Claudia’s arm, brief but hopefully reassuring, and watched sadly as her shoulders slumped. “That’s not anything to be embarrassed about,” she said, and her voice quavered as it failed to decide whether it wanted to sound sombre or sympathetic and so tried to so both at the same time.

“I’m not embarrassed!” Claudia insisted, little more than a pitchy whine. “It’s just not a big thing.” She dropped down into her seat with a defiant, juvenile little grunt, yanking her arm out of Myka’s reach and scowling down at the runway through the window. “Can we, like, talk about something else now?”

“Okay,” Myka said readily. 

It wouldn’t have been very difficult at all to be offended by Claudia’s attitude – the hyper-defensive overreaction, the pseudo-teenage tantrum-style aggression – but she wasn’t. She knew her too well, and she understood the need for bravado, for self-preservation on a level that ran deeper than any words from either of them. More than that, though, she knew that it wasn’t personal. She knew that Claudia wasn’t even seeing her just then, much less hearing what she was trying to say, knew that she was just being who she was, being Claudia: young, out of her depth, and desperate to do anything if it meant she wouldn’t be a disappointment.

“So,” Myka went on after a moment, changing the subject as requested. “Do you know anything about Henry the Eighth?”

Claudia blinked, startled out of her anxious petulance by perplexed confusion. “Huh?” she mumbled, absent-minded and wholly distracted.

Myka chuckled. “The mission,” she prompted gently. “Henry the Eighth? The great British monarchy? The exciting new Tudor exhibit opening at the British Museum? The dangerous artefact that might be among the display pieces?”

“Okay, okay,” Claudia huffed, predictably cranky. “I get it already. _‘Focus on the mission, Claudia’_. Jeez.” She made a thoughtful little noise, just the same, taking a moment to actually think about the question, then shrugged. “Dude had like a zillion wives or somethin’, right?”

“Six,” Myka corrected automatically. “He had six wives.”

“Close enough,” Claudia shrugged, tugging anxiously on her seatbelt. “So we’re, what, looking for an artefact that’ll turn you into a serial womaniser with a funky accent?” She bit her lip, and Myka grimaced at the sudden mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Did you check in HG’s room?”

“Claudia!” Myka sputtered.

“What? I was just askin’...”

Myka rolled her eyes. Wherever she went, and no matter who with, she was surrounded by immaturity. “You did read the mission briefing, didn’t you?” she pressed, already knowing that the answer would be a resounding ‘no’, but wanting to hear it from Claudia’s mouth just the same. “I mean, thoroughly?”

“I was gonna read it on the flight...” Claudia insisted, suddenly shamefaced, looking rather like Pete did every time he was caught stealing cookies from Leena’s kitchen. “We got, like, eight hours or whatever to kill on this thing, right? Plenty of time to read the whole thing a dozen times over. I so totally got this, Myka. Don’t even worry about it.”

“Of course you have,” Myka said, humouring her, then sobered. “Just be sure that you do. You know I don’t believe in coddling you, Claud, and I’m not about to start now. You want the field time? You knuckle down and you do the paperwork for it, just like the rest of us have to. Got it?”

“I know,” Claudia said. “I read the whole Warehouse manual, remember? Like, twice. Pete didn’t even read it once.”

Myka snorted her derision, amused in spite of herself. “And this is why we don’t cite Pete as a role model,” she pointed out, serious though her tone was light. “Anyway, the point is, if you’d read the briefing, you’d know that the artefact we’re hunting doesn’t turn you into a womaniser, or give you an accent. If anything, it’s kind of like an—” She stopped herself almost mid-word, catching the sudden sly glint in Claudia’s eye. “Wait. Nice try, but no. You don’t get the Cliffs notes for this, Claud. You’re going to study. Go. Read. Learn.”

“Aw, man...” Claudia whined. “Can’t you just give away a teeny tiny little spoiler? Like, a micro-spoiler? A spoilerette?”

Myka smiled, and the expression was sincere; finally, Claudia was starting to sound more like herself, and she was genuinely glad for that. “Nope. No shortcuts. Go. Be a good apprentice. Read.”

The sudden pulsing vibration of the plane as it started to move cut off any smartass retorts that Claudia might have been coming up with (and no doubt already had in train), replacing them before they ever manifested with a startled little squeak. Myka, ever the diplomat, hid her smile by feigning a sudden unshakeable fascination with the _‘in case of emergency, your exits are here, here, and here...’_ demonstration. Still, though, no amount of imaginary interest could conceal her sympathetic amusement when the engine roared noisily to life, the plane shakily picking up speed in a way that Myka had experienced probably a thousand times or more by this point in her career, and, seemingly not even realising what she was doing, Claudia fumbled for her hand.

“I thought you didn’t need me to hold your hand when we take off...” Myka reminded her, gently teasing, and quirked a brow.

“Shut up,” Claudia muttered under her breath, and clutched at her fingers as though both of their lives depended on it.

It wasn’t until they were fully airborne, above the clouds and carving a neat path through the airless atmosphere, that Claudia finally eased up the death-grip she had on Myka’s hand, and even then, she kept the contact. She didn’t let go, but she released just enough of the painful pressure for Myka’s fingers to get their circulation back, and Myka decided that was enough of a compromise for now. And yet, even though she must have realised by then that Myka wasn’t going to judge her – not for being anxious, or for being afraid, or for anything she might be feeling at all – it seemed that Claudia still couldn’t quite bring herself to look up and meet her gaze. Instead, she opted for staring out of the window, watching the clouds with hazy eyes, and trying to keep her breathing steady.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, voice tremulous and awkward. “I, uh...”

“I told you,” Myka said softly, “you don’t need to be embarrassed. We’ve all got things we’re not comfortable with, Claud, and anyone who says they don’t is lying to you.”

“I know,” Claudia said, biting her lip. “I mean, y’know, I do know. I totally get it. You don’t, like, have to try and make me feel better for being a colossal loser or anything. It’s just... uh, well... it’s just... y’know, I’m not... I don’t... I’m not...”

Myka didn’t say anything, watching in patient silence as she wrestled with the words that were clearly refusing to take shape on her tongue, and smiling when Claudia squeezed at her hand once more, albeit only for a moment this time.

“Look,” she went on, a little steadier now. “The thing is, Myka... I’m not... like... I’m not... I’m not like HG. I’m not even like, y’know, Pete. And I’m kinda down with that. Like, I know that I totally, totally suck at this. I do get it, and it’s okay if you think like that too. It is so totally okay, Myka. It’s just... I just... I really wanna do good here. And I know that you didn’t, like, have to let me come—”

“Actually, I did,” Myka blurted, the need to be honest overriding the part of her brain that knew it was quite possibly the most stupid thing she could have said right then. The wounded look on Claudia’s face, coupled with the tiny little _“oh”_ sound she made was almost physically painful, so, with moderate if not absolute honesty, Myka quickly added, “But, hey, listen – even if I didn’t have to, I still would have.”

Claudia turned away from the window at last, studying her face for any tangible signs of untruth. “Really?” she asked, guarded and cautious in a way that made Myka’s heart hurt.

Myka patted her hand. “Yes, really,” she promised. “Because you’re good, Claud. I know that’s not an easy thing for you to believe, but you are. And there’s nothing wrong with you that can’t be fixed by hard work and experience. Now, the hard work? That’s down to you. But if I’ve got an opportunity to help you get some experience, that’s something I’m always going to be happy – honoured, even – to do.”

“Yeah?” Claudia repeated, in a small voice. “Even though... even though we both know it should be HG here instead?”

Sighing softly, Myka traced her thumb over Claudia’s knuckles, a soothing rhythm meant to calm them both. “Oh, Claud...” she sighed. “That’s a whole separate issue. It’s got nothing to do with you, I swear. And I don’t mean that in the sense of _‘it’s none of your business’_ , I mean it like _‘you didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t you dare think that you did’_. It’s not your fault, and it’s not about you... and I promise you, Claud, I’d never, ever let my thoughts about Artie’s decision-making influence how I feel about working with you.”

Claudia tried to smile. It mostly failed, but it was a noble effort just the same, and it warmed Myka’s aching chest to see it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And besides, none of that stuff is at all relevant right now, anyway. We’re here to do a job – you and me – so don’t you dare let yourself get distracted by thinking about things like that.” Claudia nodded, but she still didn’t look completely convinced. “Look, Claud. It doesn’t matter why HG isn’t here, or how I feel about it. What does matter is that _you_ are here. And if you’re ever going to make it as an agent – a real, proper agent, on your own – you have got to keep your head in the game. Forget about Artie and HG and whatever else is worrying you, and just focus on the here and now. We’ve got an artefact to find, and that’s all that matters. Got it?”

“Got it,” Claudia echoed softly, and Myka watched with quiet pride as she squared up her shoulders. “Thanks, Myka.”

“Don’t thank me,” Myka said, and the words were practically an order. “Just work hard, and give me a reason to keep believing in you as much as I do.”

After that, most of the journey passed in relative silence. Claudia, though she never fully let go of Myka’s hand, did as she’d promised and read through the mission briefing, at least a couple of times, though Myka had no way of knowing if she took it as seriously as she’d said she would. Still, she was already ahead of Pete, in the sense that she’d actually read it in the first place, and that made her automatically better than the crap that Myka usually had to deal with.

Idly, she found herself wondering what Helena would have been like if she’d been the one sitting there in Claudia’s place, how professional she would be, how ambivalent to the notion of air travel despite being several decades outside its invention. She had no doubt that she would have read through the briefing a dozen times or more before they’d even left the B&B, so anxious to prove herself, so desperate to make sure that nothing went wrong that could possibly be attributed to negligence on her part. Maybe even – and Myka couldn’t quite keep from blushing a little at the thought – secretly trying to impress her, too, using the mission and her desire to do good as a shroud for less professional things. Knowing the way Helena worked, it was rather more likely than Myka should have been comfortable with. And yet...

Thinking about it sent a flood of warmth coursing through her veins, rich and honeyed, and it put a smile on her face that lasted for most of the flight. It might have been a bad idea to let Claudia dwell on all the ‘what if’s of Helena’s having been the more logical choice for this mission, but that didn’t mean that Myka herself was subject to the same rule. She was, after all, the one with all the experience, the one in charge, and if she couldn’t allow herself a little moment or two of indulgence on a long flight... well, then there was no fun in her job at all, was there?

Besides which, as the only real agent on this mission, it was practically part of Myka’s job description to think about all of the possible alternatives in any given situation, and that included the obvious ones. She was just doing what was expected of her, really, in thinking so hard about Helena, about what she could have brought to the mission, about all the ways in which she would have been the superior choice. It was just good leadership to think about such things, to consider every angle, even if it was every bit as important to make sure that Claudia didn’t suspect that she might be having such thoughts. She needed to keep the weight on her shoulders, to keep Claudia free and focused on her own responsibilities (namely, not falling over her own feet), and that meant that she alone – she, Myka – needed to be the one thinking about this stuff.

While she was on the subject, she couldn’t help wondering, too, what Helena and Pete were doing just then, if they were getting along with each other, whether Pete would play nice with the reformed villain once the two of them were alone. Artie, she knew, was really hoping not; he wanted Pete to turn against Helena just as he himself already had, wanted to forge an ally in the only other male in the group, wanted one person among them to take his side, knowing as he did that neither Myka nor Claudia would. Pete was his last resort, his trump card, and Myka knew he planned on playing him to the hilt.

But then, of course, Myka trusted Pete too. She wasn’t entirely sure she trusted Helena and Pete with each other, but that was a whole separate issue. Fact was, she trusted Pete, trusted his vibes and his instincts, and she trusted him to make his own judgments about Helena without any outside influence. She had seen the way he played with her, the way he grinned and joked, the way he locked in on the pointless stupid little things with her, just like he did with Myka, just like he did with Claudia, just like he did with everyone. She recognised (and appreciated) the way that he – in trademark Pete style – shied as far away from the serious issues as possible, the way that he played the light-hearted man-child, not because he didn’t understand the seriousness of what was going on, but because he knew it wasn’t his place to do or say anything about it. He couldn’t change the situation, couldn’t change Artie’s mind or Myka’s, or Helena’s past... but he could play the fool and keep them laughing through their conflict. It was his greatest gift, and he gave it selflessly.

With those thoughts running wild through her thoughts (Helena, Pete, Helena, _Helena_ , Pete, Artie, Claudia, Helena...), Myka spent much of the second half of the flight drifting in and out of a semi-delirious sleep. The trouble with overseas missions in faraway lands, as she’d learned a hundred thousand times, was the way that a flight lasting eight hours would invariably evolve into a loss of fourteen or more. Time-zone differences, she knew, were a thousand times worse than lengthy flight times, and sleep wasn’t so much a luxury on a long-haul flight as it was a necessity. Especially in a world like theirs, where being wide-eyed and focused almost from the second they touched down was a crucial – and often life-saving – part of the job.

Her dreams, fragmented and barely-existent as they were, were overrun by visions of Helena and Artie, the former enthusiastic and expectant, then disappointed and despondent, while the latter rubbed his hands together and chuckled ominously. In her mind’s eye, Myka saw herself cry out in protest, but the words were swallowed by the unnatural howling of an artefact-induced storm that came from out of nowhere and carried all of her arguments away. And then Helena’s face again, obscured by nothing in particular, so that Myka couldn’t see whether she appreciated her efforts or not, while Artie’s expression darkened by degrees until they formed a thundercloud of dissatisfaction. She woke, repeatedly, in a state of groggy confusion, never quite sure which of the two was worse – knowing that Artie had lost so much of his respect for her, or not knowing whether Helena had any idea how much she mattered.

She was pretty sure that Claudia didn’t use the flight time to catch any sleep herself, though she wasn’t entirely convinced that she used it all for reading, either. She didn’t know for certain, in either case, but the former at least seemed to be a pretty reasonable assumption, going by the dazed look on her face when they touched down and stepped out of the plane and onto a runway bathed in a haze of mid-morning drizzle. She was clearly very relieved to have her feet back on solid ground, to be back in the familiar world where the air was open and the sky was above them where it belonged, but Myka knew far too well the confused shadows of fatigue that lined her eyes and made her look half-dead. If she had to guess, she’d give it less than an hour before the jetlag hit, hard enough to knock her right out.

Until then, though, she’d just have to help as best she could, and she offered a helpful smile as Claudia looked around them like she’d never seen anything before.

“It’s nearly midday,” Myka told her, even though the pilot had already announced the time on their descent. “We’ve got almost the whole day ahead of us...”

“Oh...” Claudia grimaced, her usual self-deprecating sheepishness covered over by confusion, and squinted up at the clouds with a dazed look on her face. “Stupid friggin’ London time...” she mumbled, and Myka had no idea whether she was more annoyed with it for being so early in the day, or because it had dared to confuse her poor delicate sensibilities in front of her mentor.

Sympathetic, but not too much, Myka patted her shoulder. “You can take a nap when we get to the hotel if you want.”

“Oh, _hell_ to the no!” Claudia snorted, spreading her arms wide with exaggerated derision. “I am so totally ready for this, Myka! Just you try an’ stop me. I got the whole mission briefing in my head now! Just point me at this library, and I’ll—”

“Museum,” Myka corrected, the instinctive need for accuracy overriding the desire to laugh. “It’s a museum, Claud, not a library.”

The confusion amplified, tragic and adorable in equal measure. “Aren’t they the same thing?” she asked, and it kind of broke Myka’s heart to realise that she genuinely had no idea whether she was serious about that or not. “I mean, like, they both store old junk, and they’re both—”

“Keep it up,” Myka warned, cutting her off with a lethal scowl, “and you’ll spend the whole mission in the hotel room.”

“Fine,” Claudia grumbled. “ _Museum_. Whatever. Jeez.” She pushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes in a pitiful attempt at hiding a yawn (she definitely hadn’t slept, Myka decided, already mentally preparing herself for the jetlag to take her down), then mustered a mischievous half-smirk. “You know, I bet Pete’s more fun on these things...”

“Sure he is,” Myka retorted. “If you call ‘repeated concussions’ fun. But then, given our last mission, maybe you do.”

“One time!” Claudia squeaked, flushed and flustered and losing her cool. “God, Myka! You people never let stuff go!”

Myka did laugh at that, loud and open; after the revenant unease of her dreams, the troubled visions of Helena and Artie that seemed to have lodged themselves stubbornly in her head, as irremovable as they were unwanted, it felt unexpectedly good to indulge in a moment or two of mostly-mindless amusement. She nudged Claudia’s arm, a barely-existent gesture of wordless gratitude that, for all its subtlety and its target’s lack of the same, she knew wouldn’t be missed, and shook her head.

“C’mon,” she encouraged. “Museum or not, we’re not getting any closer to it by standing here and getting rained on.”

They hired a car. Or, more accurately, Myka hired a car in her own name and pointedly refused to let Claudia within a ten-mile radius of the keys. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her driving skills (point of fact, Claudia was better and safer behind the wheel than Pete and Artie combined), but Myka had no intention of letting an excitable and probably jetlagged young adult anywhere near the driver’s side of a car – and that was without taking into account the added complication of being newly arrived in a country that was still hell-bent on using the wrong side of the road. That part, absurd as it was in the modern age, was one death-wish too many, thank you very much.

By the time they found their hotel (one of those middle-of-nowhere places that Artie loved so much, which was actually kind of impressive given that it was right in the heart of one of the biggest cities in the whole world), it was well into the realm of lunchtime, and even Myka was willing to surrender to the need for food above and beyond even the necessity of hunting for artefacts.

She checked them in, took about three seconds to acclimatise to the sparse double-room that they’d been given (again, Artie, was something a little nicer than ‘two-star hellhole’ really so much to ask for?) then handed her bag over to Claudia. Rather comically, Claudia, staggered under the added weight (despite seemingly having had no trouble whatsoever with her own bag, which they both knew was probably at least twice as heavy as Myka’s), and grunted her protestation. Something along the lines of _“Oh my God, Myka, do I look like a baggage-reclaim carousel?!”_... assuming, of course, that she heard the harried under-the-breath murmurings correctly.

“Get settled in,” Myka instructed. “I’ll go find us some food.”

“Huh?” Claudia managed to blurt out, seeming quite genuinely confounded as she struggled simultaneously with the notion and the baggage. “Isn’t that what the mini-bar’s for?”

Myka heaved a weary sigh. “Proper food, Claudia...” One day, she thought sadly, she would be paired up with someone able to grasp this concept. “You can’t hunt artefacts on a diet of overpriced macadamia nuts.”

“I’d be willing to give it a shot...” Claudia muttered to herself.

Myka patted her overburdened shoulder, and tried not to laugh as she almost toppled over, and, after a painfully comedic moment or two, finally gave up her efforts to remain upright. She made a pitiful little noise, dropped both of the bags onto the floor, and flopped untidily onto the nearest of the two beds. Myka watched as she stared miserably up at the ceiling, but wisely chose not to pass comment.

“Get settled in,” she said again instead, rather unnecessarily by this point. “I won’t be long. Do _not_ touch the mini-bar.”

Claudia tried, and failed spectacularly, to sit up. “But—”

Myka folded her arms. “Okay, fine. Go nuts. Go crazy. Go get all the overpriced macadamia nuts you can eat. It’s fine by me. But then you can be the one to explain the thousand-dollar hotel bill to Artie.”

Claudia gulped loudly. “No mini-bar,” she said. “Got it.”

Nodding her approval, Myka pocketed the keycard (just to be on the safe side; she had learned far too many times the dangers of leaving Claudia alone in charge of anything), and slipped out. Naturally, she’d barely even made it three steps beyond the threshold and into the plush-thick corridor when her keen hearing caught the unmistakeable metallic clink of clumsily-attempted lock-picking. She really should have known better, she decided, and rolled her eyes with affectionate disdain.

Of course, she mused a moment later, feeling the emotion segue swiftly into a sorrowful kind of fondness, it was _HG_ who was the criminal among them.

It took longer than she expected to find a place that supplied affordable food. Not that that really surprised her very much, if she was honest; it was still London, after all, and she was still a so-called tourist. Still, even with all the time wasted trawling the local area, she still ended up spending far more money than she should have on far less food than she wanted, and the fact that she could already hear Artie’s horror resounding in the back of her mind was just the icing on the cake of injustice (which, she thought bitterly, she probably wouldn’t have been able to afford even if it had been a real cake).

In spite of herself, then, by the time she got back to the hotel, not much more than a half-hour or so later, she couldn’t help secretly hoping that Claudia’s delinquent attempts at vandalising the mini-bar had met with some measure of success; all of a sudden, a diet of illegitimately-acquired macadamia nuts was starting to sound rather enticing.

The corridor was ominously quiet when she got back to their room. Briefly, she caught herself worrying that Claudia might have taken the law into her own hands and run off guns-a-blazing to the British Museum to try and snag the artefact all on her own, no doubt in a convoluted but well-intentioned bid at proving her merit, and it was rather worrying that Myka had already constructed an entire afternoon’s worth of shenanigans in her mind before her logical brain caught up with the rest of her and shook her out of her reverie. Realistically, she supposed it was rather more likely that Claudia had simply given up her attempts at mini-bar hacking and found something quieter to do. Duly placated, Myka huffed a sigh, and swiped the keycard.

“Hey, Claud,” she called, peering around the room. “You still here? I brought...” She trailed off, brow quirked. “...oh.”

Claudia, wholly oblivious to the world and everything in it, lay sprawled out on the bed, a messy tangle of unconscious limbs. Her breathing was mostly even, hitching now and then and occasionally punctuated by hiccupping little sighs but otherwise bearing all the marks of a deep and much-needed sleep. She definitely wasn’t at peace, though; her whole body was shifting and twisting up, restless with the kind of discomfort that so often went hand-in-hand with a troubled slumber. Myka knew those kind of sleep-fuelled movements well, but she was still loathe to wake someone who so clearly needed the rest... even if it was also someone who would deny to their dying days that they’d been asleep at all.

Treading lightly, she stepped around their discarded baggage, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “Claud?”

Mumbling indistinctly, Claudia rolled over. “...hm...?” she mumbled, mouth hanging half-open.

Though she knew Claudia wouldn’t see it, Myka bit down on an affectionate smile. “I brought us lunch,” she said. “Y’know, that ‘proper food’ thing? Vital fuel for the hunting of dangerous European artefacts?”

“Mm,” Claudia managed again, if possible even more hazy than before; her eyelids fluttered uncertainly for a moment or two, as though they weren’t quite sure whether they wanted to open or not (or maybe just trying to determine whether or not they were actually capable of it)... then, after a couple of long beats, she sighed once more and rolled back over, coming to rest on her stomach with her face pressed into the pillow.

“All right, then,” Myka said, and nothing in the world was enough to keep the smile from her face now. “We’ll eat later...”

She stayed where she was for a few moments, watching wordlessly, until she was fairly sure that Claudia had fallen back to sleep, then – as it turned out, erroneously – moved to get up.

“...yka?”

Myka blinked, a little thrown by the sound of her name when she was so sure that Claudia wasn’t the least bit conscious. “Yeah, Claud. It’s me.”

“...sup.”

“Not much,” Myka told her, swallowing a chuckle even as she knew that that Claudia was too far gone to take offense to her amusement. “London time doesn’t agree with you, apparently.” Claudia mumbled something that sounded like _“...so not true”_ , and hugged the pillow. Myka shook her head. “Go back to sleep for a bit, okay?”

“...nuh uh...” Claudia argued, mostly speaking at the pillow rather than at Myka. “...artefact...”

“The artefact can wait until tonight,” Myka said, kind but increasingly unable to conceal her amusement. “It’ll be easier to sneak in unnoticed after closing time, anyway. So rest up, and conserve your energy.”

“...don’ need to...” Claudia whined. “...’m totally fine, Myka...”

As flagrant a falsehood as that was, Myka didn’t call her on it. She simply climbed back to her feet and crossed the room in the hope that, if she simply left the poor girl alone, Claudia would drift back into a full slumber of her own accord. It was, naturally, a fool-proof plan, and the sound of even breathing punctuated the air within a handful of moments.

Satisfied that she’d done right by her jetlagged apprentice, and not wanting to make too much noise by switching on the tiny hotel-room television, Myka instead entertained herself by devouring one of the sandwiches she’d bought (not at all impressive, she thought miserably, and all the more disappointing given how much the stupid thing had cost) and giving the mission briefing another thoughtful read.

She was about halfway through the file (for what she guessed was probably the thirty-ninth time; by this point, she was fairly certain she knew the whole thing word-for-word, and probably backwards too, but if there was one thing that she’d learned from her time working for the Warehouse, it was that being well-prepared was sacred) when Claudia shifted again, the restless sighs twisting up into something a little more like whimpers. Snapped out of her reverie, curiosity and concern vying for attention in her, Myka glanced across at the bed.

“Claud?” she called, as softly as she could, on the off-chance that Claudia was just settling and still didn’t need to be disturbed. “You okay?”

Unsurprisingly, there was no response; Claudia hummed and shifted, then seemed to calm, the discomfort seeming to pass over without incident as she drifted back into unconscious silence, and Myka thought for a second or two that she might have settled down on her own. Of course, though, it didn't last, and just as Myka was about to turn back to her paperwork (the unfathomably exciting physical description of the signet ring they were going to be searching for calling to her from the page), Claudia suddenly twitched and jerked bolt upright.

“Myka?” She was most definitely awake this time, but her eyes were bleary and unfocused, and there was a groggy rasp to her voice that told Myka she was, at the very least, thoroughly disoriented. “Wh... where...” She swallowed. “Uh...”

“It’s okay, Claud,” Myka said. “You just fell asleep.”

Claudia blinked dizzily. She looked like she was about to topple over and fall back to sleep at any moment, but was fighting off the impulse by sheer force of will until she could figure out where she was and how she’d gotten there. “...wha?”

“You were asleep,” Myka told her again, and studied her sleep-lined features for any sign of comprehension. Somewhat unsurprisingly, there was none to be found; instead, she found herself met with a weirdly adorable conflux of confusion and righteous indignation, and she chuckled softly. “You remember? Jetlag? London? Tudor artefacts? Macadamia nuts?”

“Oh...” Claudia mumbled, then sighed. “I thought...” She trailed off, blinked a couple of times, and promptly let her head fall back until it struck the pillow again.

She didn’t immediately try to finish her sentence, or fall back to sleep; instead, she seemed content to just lie there in a kind of limbo, caught between awareness and unconsciousness, as though she was trying to stay awake and make sure that she really was where Myka said she was, but wasn’t quite able to summon the strength of mind to make sense of anything around her. She looked dazed, yes, but there was something underneath the grogginess that couldn’t be so easily dismissed, as though she was frightened but not conscious or self-aware enough to actually cry out.

Myka stood up and crossed back to the bed. “What’d you think?” she pressed, a little worried now. Claudia mumbled something indistinct, but didn’t answer, and Myka frowned. “Claud? What is it?”

“S’not important...” Claudia’s voice was losing what little clarity it had almost had; she was still evasive, still clearly anxious, but it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be able to keep herself awake for much longer.

Myka sat herself back down on the edge of the bed. “Claud, it’s—” 

“...ohmygod...” Claudia whined, aggravated and entirely delirious. “...dude, quit hoverin’...”

“I’m not ‘hovering’,” Myka insisted, straight-faced. “It’s just more comfortable here than over there, that’s all.”

“Mhm...” Claudia griped, even as her eyes started to lose their focus; the clarity, by this point, was well and truly gone. “...sure ’tis...”

She stared blindly up at the ceiling for a handful of seconds, mumbling sounds that were no longer recognisable as words, then her eyes finally slid shut again. Myka could tell at a glance that it would only be a few short moments before she drifted back completely into her jetlagged slumber, and felt the corners of her lips lifting in fond remembrance. She knew far too well the sensation of being newly-landed in a vastly different time-zone, green and young and inexperienced, completely lacking the benefit of so many years’ experience. It had been a long time since she herself had felt that way, that drowning unfamiliarity with the way her own body-clock worked, and the sight of Claudia so thoroughly out of it brought out a kind of compassion in her that she very rarely felt without a twinge of accompanying panic.

Truth was, she wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to looking at someone like Claudia and seeing herself. She wasn’t used to remembering how it felt to be like her, to think like her, to be so completely out of her depth, so confused and disoriented, a stranger in a strange land with no sense anywhere to be seen. She wasn’t used to looking at someone so young and not feeling dissociated and indifferent.

Empathy was not Myka Bering’s strong point. She knew that, and she’d made it clear with Claudia from the very beginning. Oh, sure, she could teach her how to throw a punch or take a hit, how to defend herself or someone else... but if she was looking for a companion, a fellow female to hang out with and throw slumber parties and stay up all night talking about boys and braiding each other’s hair, or whatever else young people thought was ‘fun’, she’d have to find it elsewhere. Myka didn’t understand youth at all, and until Claudia, youth had never had much interest in Myka either.

But Claudia was perfectly happy with what little she could offer. She never asked for any of those stupid little-girl things that Myka had been so afraid of, and her eyes lit up so much more brightly at the prospect of learning a new move than anything else Myka had ever seen. She was young, yes, but she was an enthusiastic student, and, so far as Myka was concerned, that had been enough. Neither of them had expected miracles, and what they’d had had been more than enough for them both.

There had never been any call for moments like this, for Myka to look at Claudia, to see her at her most exposed and vulnerable, and feel her heart swell with memories of her own self. She wasn’t that person. Oh, sure, she could throw out a half-believable _‘I’ve been there’_ if she needed to, even convince herself that she really was invested in helping this energetic little upstart evolve into a real Warehouse agent. She could push all the right buttons, be the best that she could with what meagre resources her genetic material had given her... but that was not the same as this. That was nothing like the way her heart stopped now, the way her pulse pounded in double-time as she looked at the anxious exhaustion crumpling Claudia’s face even as she slept, and ached to tell her that one day, she would touch down in a strange land, and not even notice the difference.

In spite of herself, in spite of all her thoughts, it still surprised the hell out of her when Claudia interrupted her contemplation with another deliriously-mumbled, “...Myka?”

“I’m here,” Myka assured her, the words coming by instinct. “I’m right here.”

Claudia exhaled tiredly, the sound laced with something that might have been pain had she been conscious enough to muster it through the haze of whatever she was dreaming. “I’m...” The word was rich with sincerity, if not awareness, and she turned her face away. “...Myka.”

“It’s okay, Claud. You—”

“...’m not really crazy...” Claudia whimpered, so shaky that it took Myka a moment to process what she was saying. “...’m not...”

The tightness in Myka’s chest squeezed ever more painfully, though she made an effort not to let it touch her face (not that Claudia would have seen it anyway, given her present state, but for the sake of her own dignity). She knew about Claudia’s history, of course, and the time she’d spent under observation in a psychiatric clinic. In fact, for a long while, it had been the source of much judgement on her part. She wasn’t proud of it, but it was true just the same; when she’d first made her presence known, Claudia had been a threat, an unstable renegade who had taken Artie hostage and threatened the safety of everything Myka had come to hold dear. She had been dangerous, and the fact that she’d had psychiatric paperwork to prove it had been the final nail in the coffin, so far as Myka’s trust had gone, and it had taken longer than she’d ever admit to break free from that. 

But that was then, and this was now. In time, judgement had reshaped itself into real and honest affection, and Myka had made sure – overcompensating, maybe – that Claudia knew that she didn’t think less of her for what she’d been through. And, for as long as she had breath in her to conceal it, she would never let her know that she had once thought the very worst.

It was behind them, anyway. Claudia’s criminality, Myka’s judgement, and the institution. It was what it was... and, anyway, they never talked about it. Claudia was evasive about the whole issue, probably embarrassed and uncomfortable (if not outright scared), and Myka could understand her not wanting to bring it up in front of her or Artie or Pete, the people she so clearly admired. For her part, too, Myka never pressed the issue; maybe she was still wrought with her own residual guilt, self-conscious about the reservations she’d once held and couldn’t take back... or maybe she just didn’t want to hear it. Maybe she didn’t want to know the gory details of what Claudia – sassy, fun-loving, goofy Claudia – had really been through; she kind of suspected the experience was more than just the shrugged-off no-big-deal that Claudia tried to insist it was, and there was a part of her that knew she wouldn’t be able to handle the truth.

Not that it mattered, really, the reasons why they didn’t discuss it. The plain fact was, they just didn’t. It wasn’t Myka’s place to pry, anyway, and for as long as Claudia didn’t want to talk about it, she would gladly (and with no small measure of relief) respect that.

And yet, she found that it didn’t really surprise her to hear that unspoken issue brought up now, wild-voiced in the delirium of semiconscious sleep. Claudia clearly had no idea what she was saying in the first place, much less whether or not it was audible, and Myka had already half-suspected that she was having tumultuous dreams; really, it made more and more sense the more she thought about it, all the signs pointing in glaring neon to a moment like this...

...and yet, the words chilled her to the bone, echoing like static in her head and her heart, and, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t shake the shock of hearing them spoken aloud.

From where she lay, sprawled and untidy, it seemed that Claudia was just about conscious enough to register the silence, and her less-than-active brain must have interpreted the lack of response as dispute, because she made a frustrated little noise and rolled the rest of her body away.

“...’m _not_ ,” she mumbled, angry and sad, and Myka watched her shoulders tense and tighten with the kind of little-girl resolve that always looked so much closer to fear. “...swear, Myka... I...”

“I know,” Myka told her, because she had to say something and it was all that she could think of. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Claud. Nobody thinks that.”

The reassurance seemed to hit the right place, because Claudia rolled back over to face her; her eyes still couldn’t quite bring themselves to open, but she seemed to be looking at her just the same. “Jus’ thought...” she slurred; her breathing was already starting to even back out, foreshadowing a deep sleep. “I jus’ wanted you to know...”

“I do know,” Myka said, willing her pulse to slow, lest the pounding of it wake Claudia from her pending slumber. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Claudia made another soft sigh-like sound, relief touched by the hazy delirium of barely-awareness, and her body reflexively shifted a little closer to where Myka was perched. Myka patted her back, wordlessly placating, and Claudia hummed. It was a soft sound, sweet and unguarded, and Myka let her fingertips linger for a moment or two longer than she’d intended them to, comforting pressure smoothing in small circles over the places where the tension was greatest, then carefully moved to climb back to her feet.

Of course, Claudia’s delirious brain had other ideas. There was no shift in her body, no hitch in her breathing, no hint of consciousness at all... and yet...

“...stay?”

The request was so unexpected, so clear and so completely out of the blue that Myka felt her chest tighten, surprise mingling with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. She blinked, then frowned, let her gaze linger on the mostly-immobile form still sprawled spread-eagle across the bed, searching for signs of life. There were none, though, and Myka wondered if perhaps Claudia was just talking in her sleep, mumbling delusory pleas at a dream-forged spectre, a memory of the Myka she’d been talking to rather than the one that was there.

After a moment or two, Myka found her voice. “Did you say something?” she asked lamely.

“Stay...” Claudia repeated, a little more legible. “...just a couple more minutes, Myka, ’kay?”

Whether she was asleep or awake, there was so much hope in the request – and it was, in itself, such a painfully simple one – that Myka couldn’t have denied it even if she’d had a good reason to. As it was, she had no reason at all, good or bad, and so she huffed an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, and scooted across to make herself a little more comfortable. Claudia reacted instinctively, pressing herself closer to the source of warmth, and Myka found herself struggling to keep from flinching at the almost-intimacy. Claudia was so small, the child that Myka knew was always just beneath the surface making its presence known now in a way that she would never have allowed if she were conscious, and Myka felt strangely helpless in the face of it.

“Just a couple more minutes,” she repeated, knowing already that it wouldn’t be, and trying a little too hard to ignore the way that her arm insisted (of its own accord) on draping itself across Claudia’s still-tight shoulders, as though there might actually have once been a kind of maternal instinct in her. “...and not one second longer.”

This, she decided as Claudia burrowed into the fabric of her shirt, was simply not part of the job description. And it wasn’t fair, either. Jetlag, she could understand. The all-afternoon naps that inevitably went with it, sure. Claudia was still new at this, still an apprentice, and Myka knew from her own experiences that the internal body clock took more than one or two trips to adjust. She’d learn by experience; it was the only way, and Myka had no problem at all with Claudia’s need for sleep, or even, really, the delirious semi-confessions it had birthed.

But this was simply unacceptable. Myka was a Warehouse agent, not a security blanket, and if she was suddenly expected to put up with things like ‘snuggling’ while in the field? Well then, she would just have to put her foot down, and to hell with whatever Artie might have to say on the subject.

If this was going to be a recurring theme, she decided, then she was going make damn sure that their next excursion was one that included Helena.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up in a strange bed, in an alien land, tangled up around the unfamiliar form of a superior agent really wasn’t the most calming thing in the world, Claudia realised, in the nanosecond before her senses returned and she started screaming.

Rather than having the knock-on effect that she would have expected, her panic didn’t seem to faze Myka very much; she simply sighed softly, tightened her arm where it rested across Claudia’s shoulders, and told her, firmly but with kindness, to shut up and calm the hell down. Or, well, ‘shut up and calm down’, at least; ‘the hell’ was mostly (which is to say, completely) Claudia’s own mental addition, for dramatic effect. And, well, honestly... given that she’d kind of just woken up in an unfamiliar place with her face buried in what she was pretty (albeit not entirely) sure was Myka’s cleavage – _oh please, please, please, no..._ – a little dramatic effect was kind of a necessary thing.

Never one to disobey an order from Myka (and especially one delivered with such profound, albeit mostly imaginary, dramatic effect), Claudia did as she was told, gulping down a few calming breaths and fighting off the fetters of her mind for long enough to try and remember where she was and what she was doing there in the first place.

“Better?” Myka asked when she finally recovered herself. Then, without giving her so much as a moment to offer any answer, she hurried quickly on. “No offense, Claud, but you really need to learn to not freak out every time something surprises you.”

This wasn’t really news, but Claudia had no intention of pointing out the fact; it wasn’t like Myka wasn’t already quite acutely aware of her lameness, anyway, and Claudia supposed that, even if she wasn’t, bringing up the subject with her face still buried in places it shouldn’t be was probably not the best idea. Besides, if she just nodded along with it, at least the whole mess could pass itself off as ‘constructive criticism’ or whatever the hell smart people called it when cool mentor-type-people told lame not-quite-conscious dumbasses to nut up and quit being a baby.

“Sorry...” she mumbled after a moment (it sounded cooler in her head), and searched the room for any hint of what the time was. “Uh... how long was I out?”

“A few hours,” Myka told her. Her eyes were bright in spite of her prior reproach, and Claudia could tell that she didn’t really blame her for the lapse. Not that that really made her feel any better about it, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal with that Disapproving Look (TM) that she hated so much.

“Sorry,” she sighed again, just the same. “I didn’t...”

Myka shook her head, cutting off the excuses before they had a chance to run wild. “It’s not a big deal. You were fried after the flight. It happens to all of us.” She smiled, genuinely warm, though Claudia wasn’t entirely convinced that the disappointment wasn’t hiding underneath it. “You’re feeling better now, though?”

“Yeah,” she said, then swallowed. “Sorry ’bout that little... y’know...” She mimed quote-marks with her fingers. “...‘freak-out’ thing...”

Myka’s eyes darkened for a second or two, the warmth suddenly overshadowed by something that Claudia couldn’t quite make out; worry, or possibly something that actually was a little bit judgey. It was hard to tell, sometimes, when Myka did things with her face, and Claudia really wasn’t the resident expert when it came to reading people’s thoughts even at the best of times. She suddenly really wished that Pete was here, or even Leena, because as much as it would be kind of totally humiliating to be schooled by the former and just plain annoying to be lectured by the latter, either option was still way better than sitting (or, well, lying) there and not knowing what to think.

“It’s okay,” Myka said at last, but there was a weight behind her voice that didn’t tally with the fact that she’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. She actually looked a little like she was starting to regret having said anything at all. “Just, you know, for future reference. Panic is not a good default setting, Claud.”

“Yeah,” Claudia said again. “And, uh, I’m sorry about the whole...” She flailed helplessly, trying to figure out how to elucidate _‘waking up all buried in your cleavage’_ without having to actually say the words and die from embarrassment. “...um, whatever the hell I did to make you...” Another pitiful gesture; she could feel her face growing hot, and saw amusement colouring the darkness in Myka’s eyes. “...um, whatever the hell you were...” She whimpered. “...doing?” More than anything in the known universe just then, she wanted to disappear. “I mean, uh... like...”

Myka laughed, shrugging off the whole messy situation with her usual professional panache. “You just wanted a bit of comfort,” she assured her. “You were having...” She trailed off, then shook her head, like the real truth didn’t stack with what she was going to say. “You were just having a little trouble getting settled, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Claudia stared at the dishevelled bedcovers, and bit down on her lip. “Yeah. That, uh... that happens sometimes...”

That, of course, was the understatement of the century. Myka didn’t need to say what she was thinking; it was obvious enough in the way that she didn’t say anything. She knew, as surely as Claudia herself did, that ‘you were having trouble getting settled’ was thinly-veiled code for ‘you were having bad dreams’, only Myka was too polite and too nervous to actually say it out loud.

She didn’t have to look up to know that she’d find the conflict right there on Myka’s face, like an open window, nothing hidden, the desire to ask if she wanted to ‘talk about it’ clashing visibly with the knowledge that Claudia was the sort of person who didn’t like to talk about anything (unless it came with circuits, systems, or occasionally power chords). She could practically hear the question crackling like electricity in the scant space between – _“what were you dreaming about, Claud? you seemed kind of restless...”_ – but, until Myka got up the guts to ask it, Claudia sure as hell wasn’t going to answer it.

It was bad enough just thinking about that stuff most of the time, even in the safe mostly-private corners of her twisted inner psyche. Worse still that she had to live it all over again when she was sleeping, that it wasn’t enough for those memories to haunt her thoughts, they had to haunt her dreams too. Still worse, the way that she could feel her nerves twitching, every inch of her body shaking through as she willed herself to forget. But discussing it with Myka? Talking about that crap, the crap she couldn’t even think about, with _Myka_? Logical, well-adjusted, awesome Myka? Hell to the no. Just... no.

This, she decided, was precisely why she should have insisted on separate rooms. Myka knew her well enough by now to know that she had a tendency to go into Panic Overdrive about pretty much everything that had ever existed in the known universe; the last thing that either of them needed was solid freakin’ evidence to set the fact in stone.

Seeming to sense that raising the issue would only result in a tension that neither of them wanted to – or should have had to – deal with just then, Myka took the cue from the awkward silence and moved on, casting what nervous curiosity she might have had to one side and switching back to Mission Mode with her usual Myka-like precision, the transition happening so fast that Claudia didn’t even realise it was happening until it was done.

“So, anyway...” she said, crisp and efficient and so totally Myka. “You’re awake now, and the museum will be closing in a couple of hours, so unless you’re hungry, we should go.”

‘Hungry’ was pretty much the last thing Claudia was just then, but instead of saying that out loud, she just shrugged, like she appreciated the thoughtfulness. “We can so totally go,” she insisted, trying unsuccessfully to play it cool. “I’m too hyped up on, y’know, mission hi-jinks to eat anything now...”

Myka made a clicking sound somewhere in her throat, which Claudia couldn’t interpret very well (she tried to let herself imagine that it was approval, though she kinda sorta suspected it was the opposite), and then the bed rocked as she stood.

For her part, Claudia stayed where she was for a couple of minutes, giving her senses a little bit of extra time to catch up with the rest of her (not that she needed it, she thought defiantly, but because it was just the polite thing to do when the senses in question had been so rudely awakened by the alien-but-definitely-not-unpleasant curves of Myka’s... Myka-shaped parts). She watched in sheepish silence as Myka pulled on her boots, and was about to get up and follow suit when she realised that she was already wearing her sneakers; apparently, in her haste to dive into the shame-filled depths of unconsciousness and mess up a stupidly tidy hotel bed, she hadn’t even taken the time to try and take them off.

Without thinking, and mostly only because she just wanted something to say in the hopes of breaking the near-Titanic-level ice that threatened to surface between them, she blurted out, “Do I get a Tesla?”

Myka stared at her. “Are you...” She trailed off, apparently coming to grips with the fact that, yes, Claudia was in fact very serious, and then shook her head in utter disbelief. “ _No_ , Claud. You absolutely, positively do _not_ get a Tesla.”

Claudia opened her mouth to demand an explanation for this monumental injustice, but Myka was already a step ahead.

“I’ll tell you why,” she said, all pointed glare and hands on hips. “Because, if I let you within fifty miles of a Tesla, you will take it apart, and rebuild it from the ground up, in the process turning it into something completely different – even though there’s nothing wrong with the way it is! – so that, by the time we get back to the Warehouse, whenever that may be, it won’t be a Tesla any more, it’ll be a Claudia Donovan New And Improved Tesla. And we both know – we both know, Claud! – that I’ll be the one who has to sit in a room for two hours straight while Artie tells me over and over and over that _this is why we don’t let Claudia touch things_.” She paused for just long enough to gulp down a breath (just in time, Claudia thought; her face was starting to turn blue), before hammering the point home. “...so, no, Claud. You don’t get a Tesla.”

It was, Claudia had to admit, a pretty valid argument. Still, the teenager in her couldn’t help sulking, and she crossed her arms as she leaped off the bed. “What if I gotta defend myself?” she demanded, pouting just a bit. “What if I get attacked or somethin’?”

“Uh.” Myka looked like she was really struggling, with all the strength she had, to keep from upsetting her delicate sensibilities with pesky things like the truth. “Claud. Uh. Look... I’m not really sure what you’re expecting from this thing, but I don’t plan on actually letting you out of my sight. So, even if something does happen to you – which it won’t, okay? – _I_ will still have a Tesla. And your back, as well. So you’re not going to—”

“But what _if_?” Claudia insisted, dropping the pout in favour of juvenile whining. “Unexpected stuff happens in our line of work, Myka! Do you really wanna risk screwing us both over, and letting the artefact get away, and, I dunno, blowing up half the planet or somethin’, just in case Artie gets pissed ’cause you let me play with a Tesla?”

“Claudia...” Myka warned, a dangerous edge creeping into her voice, punctuated pointedly by the use of her full name. “Don’t make me leave you here all night...”

Though she was at least mostly sure that it was a bluff, Claudia had no intention of taking the risk, and she huffed the kind of sigh that said, in no uncertain terms, _‘I’m so totally onto you, Myka Bering, and I could so totally win this thing if I wanted to, only I don’t, so I’m gonna let you win instead, ’cause I’m awesome and you’re just a sucky loser’_. Or, well, possibly something else that maybe sounded a bit more badass and a little less infantile. At any rate, the end result was the same, and she stomped towards the door with all the air of a kid who had been unjustly shot down.

“Fine...” she grumbled. “Can we go find this thing now?”

Much to her mutual relief and aggravation, Myka was somewhat more mature than she was, and simply tilted her head in quiet acknowledgement. “Yes we can,” she said, lacing up her boots with the sort of flawless efficiency that, as far as Claudia was concerned, really should not be allowed to exist in the world. “Unless you’re feeling the need for another impromptu nap before we go?”

That, Claudia decided, did not deserve a response.

According to the little digital clock in Myka’s rental car, it was coming up to six o’clock by the time they found a place to park, about a mile or so from the museum-library-whatever (for reasons of subtlety, Myka insisted, though Claudia suspected it was probably rather more for reasons of a _‘get off your ass and exercise, Claudia’_ nature). Of course, the problem with such oblique concepts as ‘six o’clock’ was that Claudia was still in that confused and maybe-delirious state of existence where her body clock hadn’t adjusted yet, and, hard as she tried, she simply couldn’t figure out whether it was six in the morning or in the evening.

Honestly, though, it wasn’t entirely her fault. The fact that there seemed to be no such thing as ‘sunlight’ in the land of the museum-loving Brits wasn’t helping at all. Morning and evening, apparently, basically translated to the same state of heavy-clouded drizzle, so far as this stupid country was concerned.

“This is so worse than Switzerland,” she whined, jogging in a futile attempt to keep up with Myka’s long-legged stride.

“Well...” Myka mused; she sounded familiar, worryingly so, in that way she had of making a whole question of something. Already, Claudia could see her picking apart what she’d said, all six words of it, like she’d somehow, in that one off-hand observation, asked for a complete and thorough dissection of the logistics of international travel. “You’re not running on teenage angst this time around. Or adrenaline, for that matter. So it makes sense that—”

“Oh my God!” Claudia cried. “Can we please go back to _‘focus on the mission, Claudia, keep your head in the game, blah blah blah’_?”

Much to her relief, she didn’t have to deal that for very long, either. Within a few blessedly short minutes, and just as the drizzle threatened to spill over into actual rain, Claudia found herself standing at a (hypothetically) safe distance and watching enviously as Myka worked her magic on the old-fashioned padlock that kept shut one of the eighteen thousand back entrances to the ridiculously oversized museum. Had it been anyone else but Myka, Claudia would have taken offense to the way that she completely ignored her cries of “I could’ve got that thing open in like two seconds if you’d just let me take a shot at it...”, but Myka was so freakin’ efficient at everything – including this – it was kind of impossible to argue.

And then they were inside, dodging security guards and CCTV cameras like the coolest spy-movie spies in the history of spy-movie spying.

Unsurprisingly, Myka was the more adept of the two at the whole ‘sneaking around’ thing, having the unfair advantage of all those years of training or whatever, and Claudia had lost count within about two minutes of how many times she’d been told to be quiet. And that, she couldn’t help thinking, was just adding insult to injury; it wasn’t her fault, after all, that her stupid feet weren’t designed for things like stealth or grace or poise or... well, anything useful at all, really. Still, though, she made the effort, following Myka’s stealthy footsteps as best she could until they arrived at their destination, not long after, and somewhat miraculously (no thanks to Claudia) without attracting attention.

“You know what we’re looking for, right?”

The question was standard; Claudia understood that, and she knew Myka well enough to know that there was no accusation there (she knew Claudia had read the briefing, after all), but she glared and bristled just the same, because it was expected of her.

“Signet ring,” she shot back, willing herself to sound bored and not just desperate to impress; that in itself probably would’ve been enough of an answer to satisfy Myka, but she went on nonetheless, if only to prove that yes, she had read the briefing like a dozen times by now, and yes, she so totally had this stuff down. “Once belonged to Henry the Eighth. It’s pretty, it’s sparkly, it’s got the royal seal on it, whatever that means. Oh, and it brings out all the wearer’s repressed lust and gluttony and turns them into a crazy dictator-like fiend on an endless quest for self-satisfaction and orgies. Which is actually kind of cool when you think about it... ’cause hello, orgies, and—” Myka scowled. “—and obviously, it’s evil. _Evil_.”

Myka sighed. “Claud... if we’re ever going to make a real agent out of you, you really need to stop spending time with Pete.”

They lapsed into pseudo-professional silence after that, partly because Claudia was slowly but surely coming to realise that she was never going to be able to beat Myka in a discussion – any discussion, about anything, ever – but mostly, by her own admission, because the more noise they made, the greater their chances of getting caught. Not that she would ever admit that she was afraid of such a thing (at least, not in a place where Myka could hear it), but nonetheless. They had a mission to see through, and she knew enough to know that that wouldn’t happen if they both got thrown into British Jail (did they even have jail here?), and never again saw the light of day.

It was ultimately Myka – of course – who found the thing.

For her part, Claudia was busy struggling with the ridiculously over-insulated glass case that held a bunch of the smaller display pieces, trying without success and with her usual lack of grace to wrestle the damn thing open, while Myka had already worked her way through three or four similar such cases. It was enough to drive an apprentice to the brink of despair, for sure, and Claudia was just about to express in very colourful language just how much she hated British glass (and British food and British hotels and British weather, and basically everything in the world to ever come from this stupid country with its stupid time-zones and its stupid accents and its stupid everything... or, well, British things that weren’t HG, at any rate, ’cause HG was all kinds of awesome and she definitely fit into the mould of Stupid And Horrible British Things That Had Been Designed Specifically To Make Claudia Donovan’s Life Miserable), when Myka let out a triumphant, albeit carefully suppressed, victory whoop.

Startled by the sort-of noise, Claudia whirled about, spinning a full circle in a half-second, and by so doing almost completely dislodging the case she’d been wrestling with. Only pure luck and Myka’s lightning-quick reflexes kept the whole cabinet from toppling over and meeting an inevitably messy demise, and, instead of the flailing ode to Myka’s awesome that had been on her tongue barely a moment ago, Claudia instead found herself having to mumble yet another shame-faced apology.

“Claud...” Myka grimaced, righting the display case with the hand that wasn’t clutching the artefact, and easing it back towards Claudia with a disapproving look. “We’ve just been through this. Literally, we _just_ discussed the whole ‘panic equals bad’ situation. Barely an hour ago, in fact, and if I have to say it again...”

“No, no,” Claudia said miserably, gripping the case’s wooden frame and wishing that she had more upper-body strength. “I know the deal. Focus. Don’t get distracted. Don’t make loud noises. Don’t be clumsy or awkward or in any way lame. Don’t get all worked up over stupid little things and thereby drop priceless British trinkets all over the floor. Don’t be yourself.”

Myka sighed, softening a little. “You’re good, Claud,” she said. “You are. It’s just that you’re a little... well, a little excitable.” It was pretty obvious, even to someone as unobservant as Claudia, that she had picked out the most generous adjective she could think of, and probably one that bore very little resemblance to what she was actually thinking. “It’s not a massive issue. But it is something you have to work on.”

“Yeah,” Claudia agreed, forcing herself not to dwell on her own colossal fail if she did that, she knew, they would be stuck here all freakin’ night (or possibly morning, if that was what it was, she really didn’t know, or hell, possibly even both). “So, uh... hey... you... you found the stupid thing?”

Approving of the shift back to the task at hand, Myka nodded, opening her fist so that Claudia could take a look at the artefact. Which, if she was honest, didn’t look nearly so cool as she’d been expecting it to. It was nice enough, she supposed, at least by the admittedly not-so-high standards of Royal Bling From Ancient Britland... but this was the modern world, and she was a modern girl, and, if pushed, she could probably count at least eighteen items among her own personal jewellery collection that were way more impressive than the thing in Myka’s hand, and not one of them had the ability to induce orgies in random strangers. It hardly seemed fair, and it was just another nail in the coffin of her hatred for this stupid country. Obviously, these people had no taste in fashionable artefact-worthy bling.

“So, uh... what now?” she asked, trying to kick-start her brain into remembering how the next part was supposed to go down.

This, at least, she could defend as being less Epic Claudia Fail and more lack of experience; in her defence, she’d only been out in the field, at least as a proper agent (slash-apprentice-slash-whatever) twice, and neither of them had been particularly standard when it came down to the snagging-and-bagging process. The first time, she had been on the brink of spontaneous combustion (a fact that, it seemed, she’d never live down for the rest of her life), and who could really blame her for not paying attention to protocol in those circumstances, honestly? In the second – also not her fault! – her meagre hopes of pulling off a whole mission without screwing anything up had been well and truly cockblocked by an artefact-addled Artie, and she’d had to practically destroy the artefact they were hunting for the sake of his sanity and her safety.

This, though? This was weirdly straightforward. Actually kind of easy, even. So much so, it was actually a little scary in itself. From her experience, stuff like this wasn’t supposed to be this simple.

“Now...” Myka explained patiently, seeming to understand the fact that Claudia didn’t have very much experience with missions that didn’t end in almost-death. “...we bag it.”

She pulled a static bag out of one of her many pockets ( _note to self, more pockets equals awesome_ ), and Claudia watched with rapt attention as she dropped the ring into it, nodding with satisfaction at the familiar flash of purple sparks, the satisfying (and glittery!) mark of a job well done.

“You see? Snagged and bagged.”

“Just like that?” Claudia asked, in a hapless squeak.

Myka chuckled. “Just like that.”

Claudia stared at the little bag, forty-two flavours of dumbstruck. “Cool...” she said, though the sentiment didn’t touch her voice. “I, uh, guess?”

Myka smiled at her, eyes shadowed with something that might almost have been affection, on someone who wasn’t Myka. “They’re not all like the ones you’re used to,” she said gently.

Of course, Claudia already knew that perfectly well, but she didn’t point out the fact; why ruin a sweet moment? Instead, and because she couldn’t think of anything less pathetic to say, she just asked, very quietly, “So, can we go home now?”

Amused, but sympathetic, Myka touched her shoulder as she stowed the bag in a completely different pocket. “Home, where the passage of time actually makes sense?”

Claudia sighed, way past exhausted. “Yes, please...”

“All right,” Myka said. “Let’s get this place back to the way it was, and then we can go home.” She crouched to retrieve the ten or more discarded pieces of junk she’d cast aside in her trawl for the artefact, then glanced up. “You did a good job, Claud.”

Claudia snorted at the obvious lie. “Dude! I didn’t even, like, do anything.” Myka shook her head, but didn’t contend the point out loud. “But hey, if you ever need an accomplice for the almost-dropping-stuff-all-over-the-floor Olympics, I am so totally there.”

For a second or two, it looked like Myka wanted to press the issue, to insist that she’d done well, no doubt to say that it was a win because, even in spite of her very best efforts, she _hadn’t_ dropped anything... but, thankfully, she seemed to think better of it, and kept her mouth shut. Maybe she knew Claudia too well to expect that she could have any effect on her bruised ego, or else maybe she just didn’t feel like getting into a discussion while they were still, technically, criminals stealing artefacty bling from a foreign country. Either way, she decided not to press the issue any further, opting instead to simply shake her head one last time and return silently to the joyous task of cleaning up. Claudia, watching, spent an obscene amount of time shuffling her feet and trying to figure out whether she would prove a help or a hindrance if she tried to offer any assistance.

Ultimately, she decided that she probably had her hands full enough with the glass case that she still (for some unfathomable reason) hadn’t put down, and worked instead on spending what scant brain power she still had on trying to recall where in the name of all things holy it had been sitting when she’d grabbed hold of it so thoughtlessly.

“Over there, Claud...” Myka sighed, like she was reading her mind or something, and gestured with her head because both of her hands were full of other, far more impressive-looking cases.

Claudia squeaked a pitiful ‘thank you’, and set to work trying to put it back, balancing the whole thing against the wall with characteristic precariousness. It was really more a question of hoping against hope that it would stay upright than of actually expecting it to. Naturally, the whole doomed situation was not helped in the least by the fact that Claudia, being Claudia, was fundamentally useless when it came to the complex task of getting anything – herself included – to stay upright for more than six seconds at a time.

Disaster, of course, was practically inevitable.

Technically speaking, it wasn’t _completely_ her fault. At least, in the sense that she never consciously or wilfully did anything to sabotage the mission or their thus-far successful attempts at flawless subtlety (or, more accurately, Myka’s thus-far successful attempts, and her epic fail), it definitely wasn’t her fault. But, in the sense of whose fault it actually was that everything went suddenly and inexplicably wrong? Well, okay, a little bit. Maybe. Sort of.

(Totally. Completely.)

It wasn’t intentional or anything. It was just that five minutes really wasn’t long enough to put into practice that whole _“you really need to work on that ‘excitable’ thing, Claud, and also try to stop being a colossal doofus”_ deal. At least, not with any kind of lasting effect. Besides, once a colossal doofus, always a colossal doofus, and no amount of well-meaning positive reinforcement from Myka was going to change that.

The trouble with stupid British museums (or at least this particular one, which was pretty much her only point of reference) was that they were really, really freakin’ old. All stone walls and stone floors, and a whole bunch of stones in a whole bunch of other places – places that, quite frankly, stones had no right to be. And the trouble with stuff made out of stone was that someone like Claudia, with sensitive hearing and not-so-sensitive motor skills, could hear just about everything within a hundred zillion miles. And, of course, the trouble with Claudia hearing things, as Myka had taken such great pains to point out to her, was that she had a borderline-ridiculous tendency to panic.

In hindsight, she supposed, it was probably just a rat running around or something equally harmless. (’Cause, yeah, they still had rats and stuff in Britain, right?). But, in the heat of the moment, hyped up as she was on the confusion of not knowing what time it was, much less what day or what universe, and the punch-drunk adrenaline of having actually witnessed an artefact being snagged and bagged without anyone (specifically, her) almost dying, she wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind to think _‘oh, hey, no big deal, it’s probably just a plague-carrying rodent’_. She was more, if she was honest, in the state of mind to assume that every little sound was someone cocking a gun at her... and so, when she heard the sound of what she was so totally sure had to be a footstep coming around the corner, she naturally, if somewhat predictably, freaked the hell out.

Seeming to sense that something cataclysmic was about to go down, Myka tried to call out her name, but she got as far as the first half-syllable before that (and everything else in a ten-mile radius) was drowned out, firstly by Claudia’s terrified shriek, and then by the explosive impact as the case slipped from her hands and fell, glass shattering in all directions as the frame, its contents, and Claudia herself all crashed noisily to the ground.

The world was suddenly a discordant blur, everything spinning and twisting at impossible angles; she wasn’t entirely sure, but she suspected that she might have blacked out for a few seconds or something. She remembered hitting her head, not least of all because the sharp solid crack of contact with that stupid stone floor was something that she wouldn’t forget for a long time, but then nothing at all, until an unfocused vision of Myka’s face rippled hazily into her field of vision, hovering over her and calling her name over and over, like the whole thing was just some cheap and crappy dream sequence from a movie, like this wasn’t actual genuine (and oh so very painful) real life.

There were bits and pieces of old English junk all over her, debris and fallout from the disaster that she’d wrought on the world. She couldn’t make out one thing from another, but she could feel it all, like she was suddenly hypersensitive if not hyper-aware. Sharp edges, metal and wood digging deep in uncomfortable places, a bunch of tasteless olde-schoole necklaces trying to choke her with their tasteless olde-schoole chains, something unexpectedly hot that she couldn’t see searing a brand onto her midsection, glittering fragments of once-priceless heirlooms now rendered unrecognisable, rainbow shards of glass peppered like lethal confetti in her hair.

“Wha...” she managed, struggling to sit up, then groaning in distress as the world and Myka’s face lurched even further out of focus than they already were.

“Don’t move...” Myka hissed; her voice was hushed, urgent, and through the pounding in her skull, Claudia could make out irritation and worry vying for control of it. “You hit your head,” she went on... because, yeah, clearly Claudia couldn’t have figured that part out all by herself. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Myka. “Stay still, Claud...”

“I’m fine,” Claudia insisted wanly. It wasn’t true, of course, but she had no intention of letting Myka know that. “The friggin’ jetlag hit harder than the stupid floor.” She grunted, grimaced, then tried to sit up again, letting herself drop back down when Myka shot her a glare. “Oh my God, back off! I’m good!”

“Oh, no you’re not...” Myka said firmly. “You are so far from ‘good’, young lady...” (Really? She was playing the ‘young lady’ card? _Really?_ ) “‘Good’ would be doing absolutely anything at all in the universe except what you just did.”

“I didn’t do anything...” Claudia tried to protest, but the stupid spinning world had other plans, and cut her off with a wave of crippling vertigo. “Oh my God, stop that...”

Myka muttered something under her breath and, clearly sensing that this was not the right moment for another lesson in how not to respond to panic, opted instead to focus on clearing up the exploded bomb of Tudor whateverness that Claudia had wrought on the place.

“Okay,” she said, sounding almost like she was talking to herself and not Claudia. “Okay. Try and lie still for a bit, all right? I’ll get this mess cleaned up. You... just stay down.”

“So don’t need to stay down,” Claudia whined sulkily.

“Maybe not, but you do need to do what I tell you to.”

That part was true, albeit annoying, and Claudia really wasn’t in the mood to give Myka any more reasons to wish that she’d never let her come along at all. So, grumbling and muttering the whole time, she lay still as instructed, staring up at the ceiling and trying real hard not to black the hell out, or worse, as flurries of purple gloves darted in and out of her field of vision, the dizzy-making mark of Myka’s unfathomable efficiency as she laboured on the not-at-all-dangerous crap with the same kind of care and dedication she would’ve used as if they’d been actual artefacts.

Within a handful of moments, Claudia’s prone body was cleared of all its debris, Myka having tidily disposed of all the junk in the busted shell of the case that had once protected them, and neatly arranged the whole screwed-up mess to look like an unfortunate but natural accident. Moody as she was, Claudia couldn’t quite keep from being impressed by how well-organised Myka was, how skilled in dealing with the unforeseen – even Act of Claudia! But then, she mused thoughtfully (or as thoughtfully as her mushy brain could manage), working with Pete probably meant that this sort of thing happened to her a lot.

It was weirdly comforting, the idea that she might not be the only one out there who was this unfathomably useless.

“Okay, Claud...” Myka said at last, once she seemed satisfied that the chaos now had some kind of order, and knelt beside her. Claudia tried to look calm and cool and confident and perfectly fine as Myka studied her, willing herself to be like absolutely anyone in the world who was not her. “Can you count to ten for me?”

“Dammit, Myka, I’m fine! Can we please just get out of—”

“If you’re really fine,” Myka threw back, “you’ll just do it.”

“So hate you...” Claudia sulked, but did what she was told.

It was a ridiculous amount of time before Myka finally conceded the possibility that Claudia was, in fact, just as fine as she said she was, and even then she insisted on helping her stand, and kept an unnecessary arm draped across her shoulders as they made their way out of the place, until Claudia genuinely couldn’t figure out whether to be touched by the fact that she cared so much, or smothered by the excess of it. 

At any rate, the upshot of Myka’s absurd hyper-protectiveness was that it took far more effort to get themselves out of the museum without detection than it had to sneak in, and Claudia was pretty sure they got the side-eye from at least two or three closed-circuit cameras on their way out. Somewhat unsurprisingly, given the way things had gone down, Myka refused to let her rewire the cameras in question (though she so totally could have, jeez), and so they quit the scene with a sense of mutual unease and a pointed “if we get stopped at the airport, don’t look at me...” from Claudia.

The drive back to the hotel was mostly silent, Myka staring blankly at the road and Claudia finally figuring out that it probably was in fact night-time not day-time, if only because the flashing clock said that it was pushing eleven-thirty and even the Land Of No Sunlight couldn’t possibly be this dark at eleven-thirty in the morning (could it? oh God, could it?). She could feel the dissatisfaction radiating off Myka in waves, the frustration of knowing how close they’d been to a perfect snag and bag – in and out in less than the time it’d take to order a pizza, even! – and how completely Claudia had screwed that up.

Claudia really wanted to break the tension, to say something, to apologise. She really, really wanted to do that, to suck it up and say she was sorry. She wanted to say she was sorry for what had happened, the way she’d panicked, her noobish immaturity... everything. Most of all, though, she wanted to apologise for her attitude, to make Myka see that she wasn’t the hot-headed little punk she’d been back in the museum. The truth was (not that she’d ever admit it in any place that Artie might hear her), she was a brat; she was loud-mouthed and obnoxious, abrasive and aggressive, and all the more so when she was in pain... and if ever there was a situation that called for a sucked-up apology, it was this one. She’d killed Myka’s chance of a perfect score, and she’d been a jackass about it, too; hell, it was bordering on _‘so, hey, I bought you this overpriced souvenir Toblerone’_... and everyone knew that Toblerone!sorry was the highest possible level of sorry.

And yet, for all her good intentions, all her heart and soul, she simply couldn’t make the words come.

It probably didn’t help much, either, that she was still feeling the after-effects of the fall. Oh, she was fine, she really was; that part was true enough, and so totally not just for Myka’s benefit. But even so, she could still feel the revenant choking grasp of a dozen Tudor chains at her throat, the pinprick shimmers of glass when she tried to shake her head, the press of metal and wood, the too-hot burn against her midsection, the claustrophobic pressure of too many ancient things tangled up all around her, and every time she tried to move her head in any given direction, the whole world lit up with fireworks that weren’t at all like the kind that happened on the fourth of July. It was more like the kind of starry-eyed explosion that came with a pummelling from an Acme anvil in a Looney Tunes cartoon, really, and the whole ensemble of phantom and genuine sensations just weren’t helping her to form cohesive sentences at all, much less elaborate Toblerone-shaped apologies.

Myka didn’t mention it, either. She didn’t offer her usual sage Myka-like advice – _“next time you fall over, Claud, remember to not hit your head”_ or _“next time you freak out over nothing, Claud, make sure any priceless breakables are safely out of reach”_ – nor did she ask if Claudia was all right once she’d judged it to be true for herself. She didn’t say anything at all, in fact, didn’t even switch on the freakin’ radio, and the silence kind of made Claudia’s skin itch and hum with the need to know what she was thinking, how she felt about the whole fiasco. Was she disappointed with her, angry at herself for letting it happen, or just too worn out from all the trans-Atlantic travel and artefact hunting and saving Claudia from death by humiliation? It was hard to tell, and Claudia was too much of a damn coward to ask.

The awkwardness didn’t ease once they got back to the hotel room. Myka pulled off her jacket with great care, presumably not wanting to upset the artefact-holding static bag still nestled in one of its countless pockets, and hung it lightly on the door handle. Claudia, for her part, collapsed onto her bed, realising a moment too late that making sudden movements wasn’t a very bright idea; soft as it was, she hit the mattress a little too hard, and the room started to spin all over again. Though she wanted nothing more than to keep all of the discomfort inside, to not give Myka any more reason to look at her and see what a monumental loser she was, she couldn’t quite suppress the groan that broke from her.

In a heartbeat, Myka was staring at her again. “Hey,” she said, empathy touched by years of experience. “You really should take it easy after hitting your head like that.”

“God, Myka, I don’t need a...” She trailed off, too burned out and miserable to keep up the façade of bravado, and sighed. “Look, whatever. Fine. I’ll take it real easy, okay? I’ll sleep for another six billion hours ’cause I hit my head, and then another six billion after that ’cause I can’t get used to this stupid country and its stupid time-zones... and then I’ll sleep the whole way home too, ’cause, hey, gotta get those eight hours... and then maybe – _maybe_ – I’ll actually get through a whole freakin’ day without breaking something.”

She didn’t cry, but she was closer than she’d ever admit.

“You’re frustrated,” Myka said softly.

Claudia bit her tongue to keep from saying _‘well, no shit, Sherlock’_ , and just huffed her wordless disapproval instead; did Myka really think that stating the obvious was going to help either of them right now? Did she really think it was what Claudia wanted to hear, what she needed to hear, what either of them should have been spending their time hearing right now?

Apparently, she really did, because the flagrant disdain on Claudia’s face did nothing to stop her from continuing.

“Believe it or not, Claud, I get it.” That really, really didn’t make Claudia feel any better, but she didn’t point that out. “You want so much to make a good impression, to do well. You want to make a name for yourself overnight. You think you’re going to wake up one morning and miraculously be as professional as me, or as intuitive as Pete, or as... well, as _HG_ as HG.” They both sighed at that, Myka for the partner that she’d been denied and Claudia for the role model she knew she would never live up to. It was a fleeting moment of shared feeling, something that couldn’t quite be called ‘regret’ but tasted so much like it... but that was all it was, just a moment, and then Myka was moving on. “But the world doesn’t work like that. It never has, and it never will.”

Part of Claudia did want to talk about it, wanted to tell Myka all the renegade thoughts in her head, wanted to say – to make her see – that all she’d wanted was to make her proud, to make her feel like maybe she wasn’t the most horrible awful terrible choice for a partner, if not right now, then maybe sometime in the future, when HG or Pete or whoever were busy or grounded or both, or whatever. She wanted to plead her own case, to say that it didn’t matter if Myka only ever caught her in the bad moments, that it wasn’t because she sucked, it was because she was learning. She wanted to say it, wanted to make the words come to life, wanted Myka to believe them, to believe in _her_... but then, how could she expect Myka to believe anything she said when Claudia didn’t believe herself?

And, of course, she couldn’t say that out loud, either. She couldn’t tell Myka that she knew she wasn’t good enough, that she knew she was a failure, that she knew she didn’t have the right stuff to be a proper field agent. She couldn’t, because then Myka would feel like she had to validate her, to justify all the make-believe reasons why that wasn’t true, even as they both knew that it was. If she said it, any tiny part of it, it would just make Myka feel like she had to play the big sister – a role that they both knew she wasn’t comfortable with – and then that wouldn’t work, and they’d both end up feeling bad about themselves. Claudia would be even more depressed than she already was, and Myka would get resentful, angry with herself for not being a better mentor... and, as much as she could deal with her own misery, Claudia just didn’t have it in her to see Myka go down that path too. She really, _really_ did not want to make Myka feel that way.

And so she did the only thing she could. Put on a brave face, swallowed hard, took a shaky but steadying breath, and sighed. “So, basically, _‘suck it up, grow a pair, quit whining’_?”

Myka looked a little relieved at the obvious feint at humour. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” she said, half-heartedly defending her sense of compassion even as she didn’t flat-out deny it. “You’ve got a long way to go, Claud. Nobody, not even Artie, is expecting you to be perfect, or to suddenly gain ten years of field experience overnight. Nobody’s expecting you to do anything more than just learn. And you have got to start looking at it that way, too. Set realistic goals.” She smiled, the kind of smile that said she knew it was easier said than done, but she was going to say it anyway. “Look. You’re never going to grow into the person we all know you can be if you’re so busy freaking out over every little thing that you don’t let yourself grow. You’re already talented; you don’t need to work at that. So just... just stop trying so hard to be something you don’t need to be, and let what you’ve got shine through on its own.”

Claudia winced; it all sounded so simple coming out of Myka, but they both knew it would miraculously reshape itself into an impenetrable tangle by the time it got inside her.

“Being a proper agent is hard,” she admitted..

“Yeah,” Myka agreed readily. “It is. It’s really hard. For all of us, me included.” She stopped short of closing the space between them and ruining the moment with physical contact, but Claudia could tell she’d been thinking about it. “I’d be lying if I told you it was easy, Claud. It’s not. And you’ve got to be prepared for that. You’ve got to accept that, no matter how easy or straightforward a mission looks, sometimes you’re going to take a blow to the head anyway. It’s just the way this gig works.”

It was clear what she wanted to say, so Claudia said it again. “So... _‘suck it up, grow a pair, and quit whining’_?”

Myka laughed, the sound rich with honest warmth. “All right, fine. Yes. Suck it up, grow a pair, and quit whining.”

“I can do that,” Claudia said. “I can so totally do that.”

It hurt to tell the lie... but not nearly as much as it hurt to watch Myka’s smile brighten with pride when she believed it.


	6. Chapter 6

The return flight was far more pleasant for Myka than the outgoing had been.

Writing reports, by its very nature, had a natural habit of making it much more difficult to focus on any of the negative things that so often rained down on her, and that was just the way she liked it. No time for sleep (she could catch up on that when she was back in her bed in her room in her home), and thus no opportunity for conflict-laden dreams to bear down and smother her good mood. It was a win/win, and the mission had ended so well – no almost-death, no insanity, no escaped criminals or runaway artefacts, everything as it should be – that not even Artie would be able to find fault. And so, though she couldn’t quite deny the part of her that still wished she’d had Helena by her side instead of Claudia, Myka was nonetheless feeling pretty cheerful by the time the captain announced their pending descent.

Claudia, by direct contrast, had a thoroughly miserable journey.

Though she knew she would never admit it in a million years, Myka suspected that she was still feeling (and probably quite heavily) the effects of her dalliance with concussion. Or, well, to be more fair to the poor girl, _nearly_ -concussion; not that she’d ever claim to be an expert in the field of diagnosis, but Myka had seen enough actual concussions in her time to know when someone wasn’t suffering one. At any rate, Claudia’s obvious discomfort coupled with her pre-existing distress about flying in general to make an understandably unpleasant experience.

The upshot of all this, much to Myka’s sympathy, was that Claudia spent the vast majority of the flight curled up in a ball in the corner of her seat, hugging her knees and trying hopelessly to suppress the pitiful little sounds that even the admittedly meagre comfort of Myka’s hand did very little to ease.

By her own admission, there was a part of Myka that hoped she would learn a valuable lesson from all of this; pain was, after all, one of the best motivators in the world, and she had long suspected (albeit in secret) that it was probably the only thing that stood any chance of having an effect on Claudia’s inhuman clumsiness. It was a very small part, though, and one that was wholly subsumed by the rest of her - the part that couldn’t keep itself from remembering that it wasn’t really Claudia’s fault that she was so irreparably klutzy, that, as she’d said, she just needed to work on them... and, most of all, the part of her that ached with empathy to see her so clearly suffering.

Pete met them at the airport. He was as charmingly obnoxious as he ever was, at least on the surface, but there was an odd kind of tension in his shoulders. Oh, he tried to cover it over, masking the lines on his face with his trademark wit (or, more accurately, his trademark lack of it) and the usual grab-bag of inappropriate wisecracks, but Myka knew him too well, and she simply couldn’t fail to notice it. It set off alarm bells, ringing out loud and obnoxious in her head, and it took far more strength than she’d ever admit to keep from cutting him off mid-word just to ask how their mission had gone... and, far more important, where Helena was, and if she was all right.

The timing for those sorts of questions was all wrong, though; as much as she wanted to deny it, Myka knew that, and so she willed herself to refrain, to keep a false smile, to play along with Pete’s stupid jokes, to pretend that she was thinking about anything in the world except the one thing she really was. She made all the right small-talk, nodded and smiled in all the right places, laughed at things that weren’t funny. She did everything she was supposed to do, playing out to the hilt the character of Myka Bering that he expected to see, even as she knew that, just as she knew him too well to not see through his façade, he knew her too. She wanted to think that she was Just That Good at playing the part, that she was just that sneaky and clever... but she knew perfectly well that it would be the product of luck and luck alone if Pete didn’t notice the way that her heart wasn’t really in any of it.

And yet, even so, she kept playing the part, and she would keep playing it until someone called her on it. Because this wasn’t the time, because Claudia was right there, because they’d literally just got back home... for any one of a hundred thousand reasons. Most of all, though, because he was doing the exact same thing.

As Pete was tossing their luggage into the trunk (as always, his carelessness overriding Myka’s cries of “be careful!”), he turned to look at her. As in, really look at her, right in the eye... and, for a moment or two, she was so certain that he’d call her on the void behind her eyes, the hole that couldn’t be filled by laughter for as long as she didn’t know how the weight on his shoulders affected Helena. She was so sure, so convinced that he’d call her on it, that he would do what any of the others would do in the same place, expose the unexpected chink in her armour and ask after it, that she almost let herself forget it was _Pete_ – that she was Myka and he was Pete, that they were them, partners, just like they’d always been... and that, even if he had noticed, even if he was specifically looking at her to get a better look at those things she was trying so futilely to hide, there were some things they just didn’t discuss.

And so, when he just grinned instead, and asked if she’d had the decency to buy him a souvenir or ten, she didn’t even miss a beat. She just rolled her eyes, punched him playfully on the arm, and told him with a perfectly straight face that London was still recovering from his own trip there just a few months earlier, during which time he had effectively emptied every single tourist shop within a hundred miles of Buckingham Palace.

“Lame, Mykes,” he complained, dropped down into the driver’s seat with a scowl on his face, and turning to interrogate Claudia instead. Claudia, for her part, was already seated in the back, looking pale and staring out the window, and Pete squinted at her through the rear-view mirror, sporting his best big-brother look. “And what’s your excuse, huh? Seriously, what’s the point in even being an apprentice at all if you’re not gonna hunt souvenirs for your big bro?”

Apparently lost in thought, or else lingering discomfort, Claudia didn’t say anything. Myka grimaced, feeling some of that much-needed easiness slipping away, and slid gracefully into the passenger-side seat.

“Pete,” she said, touching his shoulder in wordless warning. “Don’t antagonise her.”

“Why not?” he demanded blithely, then quickly sobered when he realised that she wasn’t just chastising him because it was what she always did. “Is she okay?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned his gaze back to Claudia, frowning more seriously now. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” she answered, but Myka heard the grit in her voice.

“London wasn’t very nice to her,” she explained on her behalf, and cut a glare at Pete as though the whole fiasco was somehow his fault (which it might as well have been; these things usually were, and they both knew that he didn’t have to be on the same continent as something to make it go wrong). “Come to think on it, she’s just like you. All head injury and no head for travel.”

“Aww, Claud!” Pete cried, voice alight with playful camaraderie, not so much as a trace of sympathy, and it warmed Myka’s heart to see him just as good with Claudia, just as aware in any given moment of what she did and didn’t need. “You too?”

Claudia made a noise, somewhere between irritable and sheepish, but didn’t actually say anything; Myka was starting to wonder if she was even capable of speech at this point, though she knew as well as Pete that now wasn’t the time to voice her concern. Not with so many other things going on, so many other unspoken thoughts rippling in the air between all three of them. So she held her tongue, studied the backwards reflection in the rear-view, and tried not to be distracted by thoughts of Helena.

Pete, of course, was still being Pete, trying to ease Claudia’s obvious discomfort in the only way he knew. “Hey, Claud, don’t sweat it. Happens to the best of us. And, y’know... don’t listen to anything Myka says, either. She’s just all kinds of jealous, ’cause she doesn’t look nearly as cool as we do with a head-bump.”

“Right,” Myka shot back, unable to resist rising to bait like that; if there was one thing Pete was a certified expert at, it was getting a rise out of her exactly when one was needed. “Yeah, Pete. That’s exactly what it is. The fact that you’re an overgrown three-year-old really has nothing to do with it at all...”

Pete beamed, like that was the greatest compliment he’d ever received in his life (and, knowing him, it probably was). “See?” he smirked. “Jealous.”

He winked at Claudia through the mirror, then conveniently cut off all possible chance at an argument from Myka by pretending to focus on the road. Because, of course, he knew that she wouldn’t dare try and distract somebody who was trying to be a safe driver. Or, as was more applicable to this case, someone who was pretending to be a safe driver. It was genius, evil genius.

“You see?” she barked at Claudia, because she obviously couldn’t yell at Pete now, and Claudia was definitely not trying to be a safe driver (or a safe anything at all), and gestured frantically. “This is why we don’t ever – _ever_! – use Pete as a role model!”

“Hey!” Pete interjected; apparently his so-called ‘focus’ didn’t stop him from talking, much to Myka’s acute disappointment. “I’ll have you know I’m a _great_ role model! I got all the life skills an apprentice could ever need.”

“Sure,” Myka snorted, “if she’s ever held hostage and threatened with death by comic-book trivia unless she can name eighteen impossible breakfast foods.”

Much to her surprise, Claudia actually mustered something like a chuckle at that; it wasn’t much, weak and shaky, but in the wake of the last eight hours, it was surprisingly comforting.

“Oh yeah,” she said, and it took Myka a moment to realise she was talking to Pete and not herself. “She is so totally jealous of our badass head-bumpage...”

That, Myka decided, was quite enough of that.

“So, hey...” she blurted out, not realising until the words were on her tongue what she was about to say. “How’d that thing in Boston go?”

Even by her usual standards, the question was about as subtle as a brick, and she had to bite down hard on her tongue to keep from trying to take the question back. Pete, in a rare moment of actually being better at this game than she was (not that she’d given him so much of a benchmark to beat this time), kept his face casual and impassive, like she’d asked about the weather or something. His expression gave nothing away, the perfect Pete Lattimer poker face, but Myka was more observant than most, and she couldn’t help noticing the way that his fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“It... went,” he told her cautiously. “Kinda. Or... uh... not.”

Myka wasn’t entirely sure if he was trying to be deliberately evasive or if he was just unable to figure out how he wanted to deal with the question, but either way it had the effect of making her pulse quicken.

“Not?” she echoed, and her voice was squeaky in a way that matched far more closely than she’d like to admit the sudden racing of her pulse. “You didn’t go?”

“Oh, we totally went!” he elaborated quickly, then trailed off with a nervous cough. “It’s just... well, uh... it’s just that the artefact kind of... didn’t.”

Myka glared. Really, she should have been used to Pete not making any sense, but she was already on edge now, her imagination running wild with a hundred thousand possible scenarios, none of which made any kind of sense, and all she could think about was what they might mean for Helena.

It shouldn’t have been her focus. She knew that. Or, at the very least, it should have been no more so than Pete; they were both her friends, after all. And, really, Pete should have meant more because he was her partner. They’d been working together for two years, through the best and the worst of what the Warehouse had to offer, always by each other’s side and at each other’s back. Their connection ran so much deeper than simply knowing when not to ask if the other was okay; it ran deeper, almost, than blood, or at least it did for Myka, to whom the bond of kinship had always felt truer with her friends than her sister. So, really, it should have been Pete that her veins were turning icy for.

But then, Pete was a big boy. It took a lot to faze him. He was an ex-marine, and a long-time graduate from the school of Big Boys Don’t Cry. The tightness of his shoulders, the lines on his face, the barely-perceptible clenching of his jaw... they were worrying, sure, because they meant that he had something heavier than dinner on his mind, but that didn’t mean that he was upset. It just meant that he was troubled. And, honestly, even a meathead like Pete Lattimer had the right to be thoughtful once in a while.

Helena was different. She was new, and she was volatile. She came from a different era, a different world. She’d only just been reinstated as a Warehouse agent after nearly a hundred years trapped in a bronze prison. Myka had seen the look on her face when Artie had refused to let her go to London, the pain and bitterness quickly suffocated by a blanket of feigned gratitude at the opportunity to actually leave the confines of the Warehouse. It had been her one comfort, Myka thought, to know that, though she wasn’t going home, she was still going somewhere. Artie may have been cruel, but at least he’d thrown her a bone; at least he’d given her a mission. For all his calloused and calculated cruelty, he’d given her _something_.

Only, judging by the look on Pete’s face, it hadn’t been as simple as that... and the worst part was, there was a corner of Myka’s mind that wasn’t surprised.

“What are you talking about, Pete?” she asked, trying hopelessly to rein in the urgency a little.

He winced, clearly not wanting to go into it, but (in true Pete Lattimer style, even in moments of such adversity as Myka’s fiercest glare) refused to give up the façade of levity and lightness. It was probably mostly for Claudia’s sake, she mused, still looking pale and miserable in the back seat, but she couldn’t deny that she drew herself a little comfort from his predictability too. He knew that he was about to say something that would upset her, and he was steadying her for it.

“Cover your ears, Claud,” he said with a quick grin. “If Mykes is anything at all like her new BFF, she’s about to start spouting words that your delicate little ears shouldn’t have to hear.”

Claudia huffed, but she still didn’t sound like herself. “You guys know I’m not six, right?” she retorted. “And, like, she’s _Myka_. I say more bad words on a daily basis than she probably even knows.” She paused, glanced briefly at Myka (apparently with the belated realisation that she was in fact actually present and had heard that), then stared guiltily down at her knees. “I mean, uh... so, hey, what happened?”

Pete took a deep breath. “Okay...” he said, and there was an awkward tremor behind his voice that said, though he was very conscious of Claudia’s presence, the only other person in this conversation was Myka. “But, hey – before you go all Xena Buffy Seven-of-Nine badass sci-fi chick on my ass, remember that I got screwed too...” 

Myka nodded, and felt her fists balling spasmodically in her lap, a reflex reaction to circumstances she didn’t even fully know yet. Pete took his eyes off the road for a moment or two to look at her, like he was waiting for her to punch him or something, and then, when he was finally satisfied that she wasn’t going to (or, well, at least not right away) finally explained himself.

“...HG reckons Artie might’ve known it was a dead end.”

The ice in Myka’s veins turned colder still. “I see.”

“Dude,” Claudia mumbled, mostly to herself. “That’s just cold.”

Pete, thankfully, had the good sense to ignore her and keep his focus on Myka. “She thinks he just wanted to get her out of the way,” he explained. He was injecting as much disdain as he could into his voice, but Myka wasn’t so sure he really meant it. She didn’t expect him to take Helena’s side, of course, but she could tell by the strain in his voice as he tried to dismiss her concerns that he wasn’t entirely unconvinced by them. “Like... man, I dunno... like he made up a whole imaginary mission just to get her out of the Warehouse and keep you off his back, or something...”

He shrugged, eyes momentarily cloudy, and that told Myka for sure that he didn’t really believe the ideas was as absurd as he wanted to. Honestly, she was more relieved than she’d expected to see that in him, the hesitation that said he wasn’t dismissing the issue out of hand just because it came from Helena, the real weight he was so clearly giving (whether he wanted to or not) to a genuine concern regardless of how he felt about the person who held it? That was her Pete, and she loved him all the more for it. If Artie had been planning to being him over to his side, he’d grossly underestimated Pete’s capacity to think – or whatever passed for ‘thinking’ in that brain of his – for himself.

“I don’t wanna think bad of Artie or anything...” he sighed, and Myka was so surprised that he was actually taking that step and admitting it out loud that didn’t even think to tell him that he should’ve said ‘badly’. “...and, hey hey hey, we know that false alarms happen sometimes – we’ve both been there, right? – but...” He exhaled. “I dunno, Mykes.”

For her part, though, Myka was pretty sure that she _did_ know.

She didn’t say it, of course. Not because she didn’t want to (she did), but because she didn’t need to. It was obvious that Pete didn’t really need to hear it; for all that he’d been so quick to voice his uncertainty, it was clear as daylight. It was right there, alight in every part of him, in the whip-tight way he was gripping the wheel, in the way he was suddenly looking everywhere except at her. Most of all, in the way that he’d actually come out and admitted to not being sure. He _was_ sure. He just wished that he wasn’t.

As much by his own admission as by hers, Pete Lattimer was not the kind of person who knew a lot, about anything that mattered at all. Myka, in the time she’d known him had slowly but surely come to accept that, and with it the fact that he was actually really kind of happy about it, that underachievement and blissful innocence were states of existence that he actually consciously strove to achieve, not to defeat. He didn’t know anything, but then he didn’t claim to, and he didn’t really want to, either; whenever actual knowledge was required, he’d always defer to her with a shrug and a wisecrack, the kind of careless dismissal that made her furious, and just say that he had other skills.

He laughed off his own ignorance, called her a nerd or a geek, played the dumb jock like a pro... but the one thing he never did (or, at least, almost never) was step up and actually say _“I don’t know”_. The fact that he had this time, that he’d actually said the words and left no possible space for misinterpretation, said far more about his true feelings than _‘I guess maybe she’s got a point kinda sorta possibly...’_ ever could have.

It was all right there, and it didn’t need her to acknowledge it. In fact, she knew him well enough (and knew that he knew her well enough, too) to know that broaching it, pressing the issue, driving deep into it when he’d given himself away, would probably do more harm than good. And so, going against her nature, she just let it drop, nodding and pretending to be thoughtful and contemplative instead of just plain furious. She hummed, let the silence hang on the air between them for just the right amount of time, and then tactlessly asked whether they had at least managed to see the Beantown sights.

Okay, so it wasn’t the most graceful segue she’d ever made... but then, it didn’t have to be. The journey back from the airport was blessedly short (at least, by comparison to eight hours stuck on an airplane with an apprentice who wouldn’t let go of her hand), and Pete seemed happy enough that she hadn’t tried to punch him yet. The conversation that followed, mindless and pointless as it was, didn’t matter to either of them; it was a gesture, the two of them going through the motions of normalcy because that was their thing, because mutual understandings, at least so far as either of them were concerned, were best left unspoken. It didn’t need to be said, and so it wasn’t. Just one more in the ever-increasing list of reasons why – as irritating as he could be sometimes – Myka couldn’t imagine a more perfect partner than Pete.

...at least, she amended silently, not one born in the last century.

They stopped by the B&B to drop off their bags, and Myka gladly took the opportunity to change into something a little less travel-worn. Claudia, by this point, looked just about ready to collapse, and so Myka took pity on her. Admittedly, though she was genuinely sincere when she offered to go to the Warehouse and deal with Artie by herself so that Claudia could get reacquainted with the wonderful world of normal time-zones, there was a small part of the offer that spawned not from empathy, but from not wanting Claudia in the room to witness the moment when she inevitably kicked Artie’s ass.

She found him in his office, hiding sneakily behind what was no doubt a wholly unnecessary shield-wall of supposed ‘paperwork’.

“Artie!” she barked, as much an announcement of her mood as it was of her presence, and she could tell by the way he tried a little too hard not to acknowledge her that he saw it for what it was: she was angry at him, and he knew precisely why. The reaction was more than enough to convince her (not that she’d needed any more convincing) of the truth in what Pete had told her, and she barely managed to bite back a growl. “ _Artie_.”

“Oh, Myka,” he said, all exaggerated casualness as he looked up, if only because the tone of her voice made it impossible for him to ignore her any longer. “You’re back. How was—”

“Here...” she interrupted in a vicious mutter, unceremoniously dropping the static bag on top of his paperwork. “Snagged, bagged, tagged.”

Though he must have realised that it would be a complete waste of energy, he mustered a smile. “Good work,” he nodded, putting down his pen and studying her. “Any trouble?”

“Nope,” she said.

Really, she supposed, she probably should have mentioned the whole potential-head-injury-on-his-precious-apprentice part, at least in passing, but she really didn’t want to taint a near-perfect mission with little details like that. And, somewhat more importantly, she couldn’t risk giving him ammunition to turn the spotlight on her when she had more important issues to press. Of course, she’d have to surreptitiously mention to Claudia that she’d opted to leave that part out... but she couldn’t imagine the young woman would take any issue with the idea of _‘just pretend it never happened’_ , given how humiliated she had been at the time.

“No-one saw us,” she went on, weighting the point. “No trouble, no nothing. It barely even took ten minutes.”

He studied her face for a moment, but not too hard; she was the one – probably the only one among them, really – that they both knew he could depend upon for honesty and integrity, and without Pete around to make up exotic stories about he’d saved the day with his epic pop-culture know-how, there really wasn’t any call to look very far beneath the surface for exaggeration or omission. Myka was the one he’d always been able to reply on, and so he trusted her now without even giving it a second thought.

“Quite impressive,” he observed, when he’d finally reached this conclusion on his own. “Especially after your last debacle. Maybe I should pair the two of you up more often.”

It was as close to an opening as Myka was going to get, and she grabbed it with both hands.

“Pete told me about Boston,” she informed him, flat and without preamble. “The part where there was no artefact at all, I mean.”

“Oh, did he?” Artie snapped; he didn’t sound cutting, exactly, so much as annoyed that Pete would dare to divulge information of any kind without his express permission. “Doesn’t anyone in this place know how to keep things to themselves?” Myka opened her mouth to defend herself (and maybe Pete, too; she hadn’t decided yet), but he cut her off with an impatient wave. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Yes, it was a false alarm. No, there’s nothing I can do about it. _No, it was not deliberate_.” He eyed her, every bit as forward as she had been. “I know what you’re thinking, Myka.”

“Well, can you blame me?” she demanded , trying not to sound too accusatory lest she play into his presumption. “You’ve not exactly been supportive, have you? And you did refuse without discussion to let her be part of a mission that was perfectly tailored to her skillset...”

“You said it went fine without her,” he muttered in reply.

“It did,” Myka snapped. “But that’s not the point, Artie!”

“Oh?” he demanded, haughty in that frustrating way he got sometimes when he knew he’d done something wrong but didn’t want to admit it. “Because, from where I’m sitting, I sent you on a mission to retrieve an artefact, which you did without any trouble, interruption, or any other reason to fall back on Agent Wells’s ‘skillset’.” He was almost sneering as he said that, and Myka rolled her eyes in silent protest. “This isn’t a democracy. It’s a job! _Your_ job, to be precise.”

She couldn’t really argue with that, as much as she wanted to, though he must have realised that the truth of it did little to change the fact she had a valid point too, that, regardless of who decided who went where with whom, the fact of the matter was that Helena should have been in London with her and not in Boston with Pete wasting her time (and his, too, though he was used to that), hunting down an artefact that hadn’t existed in the first place.

The problem was, though, that he wasn’t giving her much that she could argue with. He’d clearly expected this; no doubt he’d probably been sitting there behind his paper mountain just waiting for her to storm into his office, all afire with righteous fury, ready to defend her precious HG Wells and her precious honour, and the fact that he had pre-empted her – that she had been so predictable that he could pre-empt her at all – almost made her more angry than the fact that he’d been right.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she told him, and hated herself for the way that she instantly worried that he might see the words as dissention.

“Whatever you might think about my motives,” he said, addressing her back as she turned to leave. “Whatever you think, Myka, my first priority is always – _always!_ – to the Warehouse.”

Furious as she was, her only response was to throw up her hands, and stalk out into the Warehouse.

She found Helena almost immediately. She was sitting forlornly on the floor in a quiet corner of her own section, not quite concealed by the skeletal carcass of her time machine, and had a copy of the Warehouse manual in her lap. From the look on her face, Myka could tell that she wasn’t actually reading the book, just staring down at it with the indifferent blindness of someone who had memorised the book’s contents a great many years ago and could no longer remember why they were going through the rather pointless motions of pretending to read it again now. Most likely, she had just just flipped it open to a random page – 407, Myka noted automatically – without paying the least bit of attention.

Not wanting to disturb her thoughts (if not her studies), Myka kept her approach tentative.

“Hey,” she said, wishing she could sound as unobtrusively gentle as she’d planned to. “I thought I might find you in here.”

Without waiting for an invitation, she sat, settling herself down at Helena’s side, their bodies almost touching. It kind of went against the grain of unobtrusiveness she’d been shooting for, but she hoped with good reason; she wanted Helena to feel the warmth and familiarity in her, to draw it in and let it remind her that, for all the doubts and malice still alight all around her, there were still people who were glad to have her with them, to make sure she knew that she was safe here, and that she was cared for. 

Helena glanced up, surprised. She seemed momentarily annoyed by the intrusion, in fact, but the irritation fell quickly from her face when she saw that it was only Myka.

“Oh,” she said, though whether it was a reaction to Myka’s presence or to her observation, she couldn’t tell. She smiled thinly, then shut the book and put it to one side. “Yes, well. It’s quieter in here than... certain other places I could name.” Myka opened her mouth to say something (even she wasn’t sure what), but Helena shook her head, dismissing the embryonic issue before it could become one. “How was my dear, beloved London?”

“A little bit less exciting without you there to cause trouble.”

Helena chuckled at that. “Surely our dear Miss Donovan had that particular corner rather more well-covered than I would have,” she pressed lightly, her tone light and soft with sincere affection. “Not that I would deign to accuse the poor child of being troublesome, of course.”

“Oh, of course not,” Myka agreed, trying not to laugh. “She’s just a bit...”

“...uncoordinated,” Helena finished charitably.

“You have no idea...” Myka sighed, trying not to think back to the havoc that Claudia had wrought on the British Museum. She didn’t mention the incident to Helena, though not for fear of exposure; she knew that it would be safe from Artie if she did, but she also understood (far more intimately than anyone else in the culture-free Warehouse) that Helena shared her love of the historical, to say nothing of her homeland, and she just didn’t want to upset her by mentioning the fact that their accident-prone apprentice had inadvertently destroyed half an era’s worth of valuables.

“Would you like me to teach her?” Helena blurted out; the offer came without warning, all of a sudden, and it seemed to shock Helena herself nearly as much as it did Myka. “Some grace, I mean. I don’t claim to be able to work miracles, you understand, but...” She trailed off, a low chuckle catching in her throat. “Well, I can hardly make the poor thing any worse, can I?”

Myka was caught on the edge of a noise that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be a choke or a laugh, and she spent a good half a minute or more in trying to keep it from escaping her at all. “You want to teach Claudia how to be graceful?” she blurted out, flabbergasted by the whole concept. “As in, _Claudia_? Our Claudia?”

“Why not?” Helena asked, suddenly serious. “The darling child has already dazzled me with her talents, after all, and turnabout, as they say, is fair play.” She waved one hand, a demonstratively graceful gesture. “And besides, she’s a sweet girl who is not so ill-disposed to me as certain others in this brave new world. The situation is awkward for her, as much as any of us, and yet she’s been most accommodating. It just seems prudent that I should return her hospitality in kind.”

Myka really didn’t know what to make of this proposition. Sure, it made sense, but something indefinable in her was twitched and recoiling from the thought. Already, she was reeling off the countless ways in which Helena could end up injured (or worse) by sheer accident as a direct result of this, and the equally numerous ways in which Artie would be able to use it to his advantage. She’d never be let out of the Warehouse again.

...and that was without even taking into account the simple fact – as she herself knew all too well by repeated painful experience – that Claudia was, quite frankly, uneducable. She tried, she really did, and that just made it all the more heartbreaking when she failed. She wasn’t like Pete, content in his mediocrity, happy to be ten steps behind everyone else; she had hopes and ambition, and she _tried_. It was just that she... well, she _wasn’t_ graceful, and she probably never would be, for all the hours spent trying, all of the blood and sweat and tears, all the effort and the struggles, it just wasn’t in her. And, far more than worrying about how Claudia would deal with the notion of failing in front of the great HG Wells, Myka really didn’t want Helena to blame herself.

It wasn’t just that, though. Truth was, there was something else, an unpleasantness boiling deep in her chest that she couldn’t pin down. It surged, bitter and hot, at the thought of Helena (or, indeed, Claudia, albeit in a different way) depending on someone else’s affections as much as her own. She wasn’t jealous (of course she wasn’t!); it was just that Helena had put a great deal of effort into getting her loyalty, and it was kind of a little bit offensive that she thought it was worth the same to get Claudia’s too. Claudia, who couldn’t even stand up without wreaking havoc! If she was being brutally honest, Myka couldn’t help thinking that the young woman really, _really_ wasn’t that much of a coup... and, at least so far as she was concerned, Helena would be rather more well-advised to instead focus her energies on nurturing the loyalty and compassion she’d already forged in Myka.

It was just good practice, that was all.

And as for Claudia... well, wasn’t she supposed to be trying to get a handle on Myka’s own advice first, too, trying to put into practice the nuances of what she’d been told before her overburdened post-teenage brain started trying to absorb new information from someone else? And especially when that someone else was HG Wells, for heaven’s sake! If ever there was a sure-fire way of confusing a person who, quite frankly, had trouble enough processing the concept of breakfast most of the time, this was it. Honestly, what was Helena thinking?

But, of course, at the same time as all of that, she so desperately wanted to be supportive – of Helena and her plans for expanding her rolodex of supporters, and of Claudia and her doomed quest for the ability to stay on two feet for more than three seconds – and so, instead of voicing any of the qualms spinning like stars around her head, she just gave a cautious nod.

“I’m sure she’d like that,” she said, and hoped that Helena would be too excited to read the lack of enthusiasm.

Thankfully, she was. “Splendid!” she cried, beaming. “Then it’s settled!”

Myka grimaced, floundering awkwardly for a means of changing the subject before her true feelings came to the surface... and, of course, once again, stumbled over the one thing she really shouldn’t have said, at exactly the worst possible moment. “So, um, Pete says Boston was kind of a disappointment?”

The fleeting flicker of excitement that had touched Helena’s face at the deluded notion of giving something back to Claudia dissolved in a flash of sorrow-tainted anger, like an artefact dropped in a static bag, neutralised and de-powered. “Yes, it was,” she snapped, sharp and angry, practically spitting the words. “It was quite the pointless excursion, if you must know. But then, I’m sure you already do.”

Myka sighed; she hadn’t anticipated the bitterness, at least not directed at her. She had expected the sadness, of course, and maybe some righteous indignation... but a part of her had thought – hoped – that Helena would want to confide in her, to unburden her frustration and her upset like Myka was the only friend she had in the world to hear such things, to relish the quiet solace of someone who had her back, someone who was already a supporter, who would offer to kick Artie’s ass, and then kick it again after that if that was what it took, to do whatever she had to do to get her out on a real mission. She’d expected Helena to look at her and know, without the need to say it, that she was on her side.

What she got instead was a cold scowl. If there was kind of appreciation for the sympathy, it was overpowered so completely by anger that it might as well not have been there at all.

“Hey!” she cried, defensive by instinct even as she knew that Helena hadn’t really accused her of anything. “I’m in your corner, remember? I’m the one who got you here in the first place! I’m the one who wants you to get out in the field! God, Helena, I’m the one—” She cut herself off, a peculiar kind of nervousness kicking in her chest, the kind that made no sense but left her reeling and short of breath. “...I’m the one who fought for you to go to London with me.”

For a beat or two, Helena wouldn’t look at her, and the anger on her face coloured over everything else, bruise-like mottling, all roughness and brutality, twisting her features into something Myka almost didn’t recognise. It was only a moment, though, and when she turned to face her a few seconds later, her eyes were her own again. Mostly, anyway, and, as much as she was clearly still bitter, she seemed less furious.

“Of course,” she said, a little softer. “I’m sorry, Myka. I was... I’m simply rather frustrated by the whole affair. I’m sure you understand... and, as we both know, that particular breed of aggression begets a peculiar tendency to lash out at the nearest bystander, however innocent.”

“Of course,” Myka agreed quickly, then sighed. “If it’s worth anything, I think Pete secretly thinks you might have a point.”

“Oh?” Helena asked, the curiosity quite poorly veiled. 

Apparently, the possibility of this was news to her, and Myka couldn’t help wondering how Pete had reacted to her outburst at the time. Knowing him, it had probably been with a wisecrack and a suggestion of food, which Myka quite doubted was as helpful to someone like Helena as it would have been to her, familiar as she was with Pete’s unique brand of empathy. Sometimes, she rather wished she could thwack him upside the head with a very heavy artefact imbued with the power to make him a human being.

“Well,” she admitted, suddenly sheepish. “He didn’t say you were being paranoid, and he didn’t jump to Artie’s defence. And in Pete-speak, that’s practically an agreement.”

Helena chuckled, but there was no amusement in the sound at all, and it didn’t touch her face. “Well, then,” she remarked wryly. “I appreciate such a dedicated gesture of support.” She sighed, surrendering the feint at lightness, and tangibly tried to rein in her temper once again. “...such as it is.”

“It’s just Pete,” Myka said. “He doesn’t do ‘dedicated gestures of support’. It’s just not the way he works. He’s a guy, right? He does inappropriate humour and ‘I dunno’.”

Unable to argue that point, Helena conceded with a small sound that wasn’t quite dissatisfied enough to be another full sigh. “I’m sure things will change in time,” she said softly, almost to herself, and Myka felt her pulse quicken a little at being allowed to witness this moment of inner contemplation. “I don’t know what I expected when I came here, but it wasn’t a miracle. I didn’t come back to the Warehouse under any delusions of the world suddenly beginning to turn a different way, for Artie to set aside all his prejudices, or for a moment of instantaneous clarity in anyone who set eyes on me. I’m a realist, Myka... but we must have _hope_.”

It was an important thing to have, Myka knew. Sometimes, and especially in their unique line of work, always toeing the line between the good and the bad, it was the only thing that they did have. And she needed it, too, for herself; she needed to believe that Helena would find a place here, a home and a haven, a beacon of light in a world that she knew too well could only be a disappointment. She longed for the day, that long-distant moment where they would both look back on all of this – the frustration and the crushing defeat and the days when Artie would do anything to put his bitterness on display for all to see – and wonder how it had ever existed at all, so blinded by the contentment of a future utopia that they could scarcely even remembered how much it had hurt. She had to believe that, had to believe that Helena would find her home here, a world to belong to... because the alternative was seeing herself outcast as well, painted with the same brush and damned by the same disappointment.

Playing the part of Helena’s only advocate was empowering; she couldn’t deny that. Here in their midst was a real-life legend, the sort-of-reincarnated embodiment of the books that Myka had read as a child, the living breath of the ideas that had so captured her spirit from such an early age. Here, right by her side, their arms and hands almost touching, was the real-life HG Wells – _the real-life HG Wells!_ \- and she, Myka, was the lone soldier in her fight for equality and justice. It was an intoxicating position to be in, and so much more so knowing as she did that nobody else in the Warehouse truly appreciated the scope of all that what Helena had done, her life’s work even beyond this place. Her books, her imagination, the world reshaped and reforged through the eyes of her readers for more than a century. None of them understood that, none of them could fathom how Helena’s mind was so much more wondrous than all the endless wonder in the world. None of them. No-one but her.

And yet, at the same time, she knew all too well that, if Helena was never accepted, if her place within the Warehouse remained under scrutiny and sneering from Artie for the rest of her career (the rest of her life, even, though Myka tried not to think about that), then the battle she was fighting so loudly would never be won. She, Myka, would have failed... and failure was something she simply could not accept as part of herself.

“It’ll get better,” she said.

Helena nodded but didn’t say anything, and, without thinking, Myka reached out to squeeze her hand.

Maybe she’d spent too much time over the last couple of days with Claudia and her youthful need for that particular breed of comfort, or maybe she was capable of greater compassion than she gave herself credit for. Whatever the reason, the gesture came so easily to her in that moment, so intuitively, their fingers twining together so naturally, it was as though she’d been doing it her entire life.

“Artie just needs time,” she pressed. “He knows better than anyone else in this place how important forgiveness is... and he’s good at it, too. Sometimes. I guess. When it suits him.” She exhaled, caught her breath and fixed her focus; the argument was running away from her (no doubt another annoying habit she had picked up during her time with Claudia), and she needed to lock back in on what mattered before her thoughts and words derailed completely. “He’s already praised you once,” she went on, shooting at a different angle, and smiled at the surprise on Helena’s face. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, and he’ll have no choice but to come around.”

Ever the image of grace, Helena masked the lingering surprise with a tilt of her head; she wasn’t even blushing, Myka noted with just a touch of good-natured jealousy.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Patience is a virtue, or so I’ve been told.”

“You’re not an outcast here, HG—” Myka started, then cut herself off to amend pointedly, “ _Helena_. You have friends.”

“Yourself, of course,” Helena acknowledged with a thankful smile. “And the lovely, if deluded, Miss Donovan. Pete, I feel, has yet to draw any true alliance. Sensible man.”

“He doesn’t like to jump into things,” Myka pointed out. “Except... well, food. Or holes. Or traps. Or artefacts. Or...”

“Emotionally, you mean,” Helena interjected.

Myka couldn’t quite keep from laughing at that. “As far as he actually has emotions in the first place, I suppose...” she conceded fondly.

Helena hummed, thoughtful, but didn’t press the point, and Myka knew better than to weigh it down too heavily by pushing beyond what was called for. Such as it was, she had made it, and Helena hadn’t dismissed it out of hand, and that was really all she could ask for. At least, for now.

They sat in silence for some time, Helena lost in thought and Myka lost in her presence, and for a handful of blessed, beautiful minutes, that was enough for both of them. Artie and his prejudices couldn’t touch Helena here, not in the HG Wells section, where the walls and floors were all cluttered with miracles of her own making, permanent testaments to her genius, and it was enough for Myka just to be there with her, to share in her private moment, surrounded by her mind and sharing in her soul, if only for a heartbeat.

She hadn’t helped; she knew that, and knew that Helena understood it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. It was all she wanted; she ached for it with every fibre of her being, longed to turn the whole world upside-down if that was what it took to make accept this wondrous woman. When they left this place, the one place that Helena truly did belong, for all of her longing that things might be different, they both knew that they wouldn’t. Of course they wouldn’t. Nothing was going to change, at least not for the foreseeable future. Artie would continue to do everything within his power to ensure Helena remained as impotent as possible – a member of the team in name only – and Myka would still be shot down every time she tried to make a difference to the way he saw her. It was utterly inescapable. The knowledge cut, deep and sharp as a blade... and yet...

It was hard to describe, and harder still to explain, but there was something. A subtle shift, maybe, in the tilt of the world around them, in the way the bitterness tasted on both of their tongues. A lessening, maybe, of the weight bearing down on them – not exactly a lightness, but something not unlike the sensation that came with being able to breathe again after a bad cold. Myka hadn’t helped, and she couldn’t change anything, no matter how desperately she wanted to, or how hard she tried. It was beyond her power to do anything... but she had seen Helena’s wounded anger, shared in her frustration, taken it in, absorbed it, and, she hoped, maybe even helped to ease some small fragment of it. 

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t action, and it certainly wasn’t the kind that would get a result, at least not for a long time, but it still felt like something. Small, barely there at all... but something. And everything started with something.

Myka couldn’t offer change... and, even if she could have, a part of her knew that Helena would never have accepted it anyway. She wanted to earn it, to see it hard-won and deserved – not bought with the blood money of someone else’s merit, but worked for, carved out and shaped with her own hands, forged in the fire of her worth – _her_ worth, not Myka’s. In truth, Myka couldn’t blame her for wanting it that way; had she been in Helena’s position, she was almost certain that she would have felt the same way. 

So, no. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t, offer change. Couldn’t make it happen, and would never claim to, even if she could. She couldn’t take action, couldn’t tilt the world on its axis, couldn’t force Artie or anyone else to see the woman that she saw. She couldn’t _do_ anything. But she could give herself, at least what parts of herself that Helena would take – her support and empathy, kinship and companionship. She could embrace the anger when it came, and never judge her for feeling it. And she could share. All the things that Helena needed, the greatest gifts she had to give: her space, her thoughts, her feelings, her strength, her courage, her dreams, her reason, her faith... and, above all, her hope.


	7. Chapter 7

A proper full night’s sleep in an actual normal sensible time-zone (whatever the hell that even meant any more) didn’t really make Claudia feel any better. On the contrary, in fact; when she woke up for what seemed like the six thousandth time in barely three days, she was pretty sure that she actually felt _worse_.

She didn’t feel jetlagged, at least not exactly, and definitely not to the point that she could blame sixteen hours of plane-time across six billion time-zones in three days for how awful she was feeling. Not that she had a whole ton of personal experience to judge that particular sensation by, but, from what little experience she’d gleaned from her time visiting Joshua in Switzerland, it wasn’t anything like this.

She felt a little groggy, yeah, and kind of green... but that in itself wasn’t so weird, given that she’d just woken up. It was something she couldn’t place, something inside her twitching and churning, her body crying out in a language she didn’t speak, telling her something was not right inside it.

In purely scientific terms, she just felt _sucky_. And not in a post-airplane jetlag time-zone hell sort of way... just in an inexplicable wanting-to-die way.

And it wasn’t concussion either. Mostly because she wouldn’t let it be. Because... well, okay, sure... so maybe she was a little headachey (a lot headachey, if she stopped to think about it, but she didn’t because thinking about anything made her feel really horribly sick), and, okay, so maybe the world did kind of start to spin a little (a lot, if she stopped to— _no_! no thinking!) any time she moved too fast or tried to look at something or breathe or... well, do much of anything. Maybe. But that didn’t mean anything, and it so totally did not mean she had concussion. Nuh uh, no way. That simply wasn’t an option.

The thing was, if it really was concussion, Myka would never let her live it down. And so, by that obviously irrefutable genius logic, it couldn’t possibly be. Because she was not going to sit back and let that happen. She was not going to face the Disappointed Myka Face, the one that was usually followed by _“oh, Claud...”_ in that world-weary how-are-you-even-still-alive tone of voice that made Claudia feel like the lamest lameass in the history of lame.

Nope. That wasn’t going to happen. Not on her freakin’ watch. 

She was just fine, she decided, because everyone knew that the power of positive thinking could totally negate not-at-all-concussion-like ailments. All she needed was some fresh air – like real proper fresh air, the kind that didn’t come from the backs of cars or the tops of buildings and, good God, how did the entire population of freakin’ London not have lung cancer? That was all. Maybe an hour out in Univille, shooting the breeze or whatever the hell people did when they were hanging out in a town that didn’t even have an amusement arcade.

She’d be fine. She’d take a good long walk, and she’d be absolutely, completely, perfectly fine.

Twenty minutes and ten outfit choices after making this decision, she finally managed to drag herself downstairs. It took so much effort, and left her feeling so thoroughly exhausted that, had she not already been so set upon the idea, she would have abandoned her plans entirely. Whatever was wrong with her, it did not take kindly to being made to move. But that was no big; she’d just give it a moment to recoup, grab some orange juice or something, catch her breath a little bit, and then she’d go. No big.

The others, she found, were all already sitting around the breakfast table, eating and talking, and doing both so loudly that Claudia’s throbbing head began to pound anew.

Pete caught sight of her first, and waved her over, gesturing at the empty space next to him with the kind of wild enthusiasm that made it completely impossible to say ‘no’ to him, and calling out her name with a spray of toast crumbs and butter that very nearly made her gag.

“Hey, Claud,” Myka said (blessedly a whole lot quieter than her stupid partner), and scooted her chair a couple of convenient inches closer to HG’s under the guise of making some more room between herself and Pete. “Are you feeling any better this morning?”

“Yeah...” Claudia said, the lie gritted through tightly-clenched teeth. “Yeah. I’m good now.”

HG cocked her head, examining her with narrowed eyes, that goddamned maternal instinct of hers seeming to kick in without invitation, and apparently catching the scent of bullshit. “You don’t look well, darling.”

Claudia rolled her eyes, or tried to, and the floor tilted and rocked nauseatingly. “I’m fine...” she grunted, playing up the petulance in hope of covering over the flagrant falsehood. “Quit worrying, will you? Jeez...”

HG responded with a respectful half-nod, though it was obvious she didn’t believe her; she was still new, though, and she could clearly tell that it was not her place to meddle just yet. “As you wish.”

Myka looked from her to Claudia and back again, biting her lip like she was mentally preparing herself for something (or maybe she was just reacting to the way HG’s hair looked to be tickling her arm; Claudia’s own skin itched underneath to imagine the contact, and she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with how sick she was feeling). Either way, she looked at Claudia, then, in a way that made their hairs on the back of her neck all stand up and the part of her brain that apparently needed to learn not to panic start to send out danger warnings.

“That’s good,” Myka said. She was still looking at Claudia, but something in her voice implied that she was kind of partially talking to HG as well. It was weird. “Because if you’re feeling up to it, HG wants to try and teach you some things.”

Claudia blinked. So did HG. “Come now, Myka...” she said, fast but awkwardly diplomatic. “The poor dear has barely stepped off the boat, so to speak, and is clearly still not recovered from her travels. Let’s not inundate her just yet.”

“Hey,” Claudia whined half-heartedly. “I am so totally recovered.”

“Of course you are,” HG soothed condescendingly. “In seriousness, Myka, perhaps now is not the best time to broach this particular subject.”

“But I thought you wanted to...”

Myka clearly wanted to defend herself, but Claudia had no intention of letting that happen. She had to interrupt this train of dialogue before it got to the point of no return – which was to say, before Myka and HG got all caught up in their own stuff, and started doing that thing they did sometimes where they conveniently forgot about the other people in the room and just talked at each other without stopping to let anyone else say anything or even ask them to shut up. It was imperative, she decided, to cut this off before it reached that point, and cleared her throat loudly and obnoxiously.

“What kind of things?” she asked, justifiably guarded.

“Yes indeed,” Artie chimed in darkly from his little corner of the table, scowling suspiciously over his croissant. “What kind of _things_?”

“Oh, don’t fret,” HG said, the words cracking like a whip across the table. “I just wanted, if Miss Donovan is agreeable, to offer some... ‘pointers’, as I’m sure you’d call them, on grace and poise.”

“Grace and...” Artie echoed, then promptly (and rather unfairly) began to choke on his food. “ _You_ want to teach _her_ —”

“Hey!” Claudia protested, offended. “I’m sitting right here!”

“—‘grace and poise’?” Artie finished, pointedly ignoring her.

Really, Claudia thought, his attitude was all kinds of unfair. Sure, she was a little clumsy sometimes (maybe, possibly, sort of, whatever), but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be taught. It annoyed her, the way that his disbelief seemed just as much aimed at the idea that she might not be a lost cause as it was at the fact that HG was the one who wanted to help her. Did he really think she was that far beyond hope?

“It’s really not as absurd a concept as you seem to think,” HG was saying, and shot Claudia a quick sympathetic glance, as though to say _‘I understand completely, how you must be feeling’_. “Surely even you must realise that one can find the most the greatest elegance in even the most unlikely places. Indeed, even the most brutal martial arts practices depend on vast reserves of grace to—”

“Oh, so you want to teach her ‘martial arts practices’ now, too?!”

“Right here,” Claudia sighed. “Like, actually here in the room...”

“Why not?” HG challenged, and Myka nodded her support. Apparently, they too had forgotten she was there now, too, like Artie already had, so swiftly had this conversation devolved into yet another excuse for them to yell at each other. Claudia was getting so completely tired of it all. “A little discipline and a good instructor can go a long way in—”

“This is madness!” Artie lamented, as close to a wail as she’d ever hard from him. “ _Madness_! You can’t seriously be suggesting that—”

“Hey!” Claudia exploded, in part because she didn’t want to give him a chance to start up an hour-long diatribe on the subject, but mostly because she simply couldn’t take any more of this crap. “Do I get a say in any of this?”

“No!” they both shouted back, in perfect dismissive unison.

Claudia growled, but grudgingly shut her mouth. So much for HG understanding how she felt, she thought bitterly.

“I really don’t see what the big deal is,” Myka was saying, though her face betrayed more than a hint of dubiousness. Apparently, she didn’t think Claudia stood much chance of learning from HG either, and, in its own way, that was even more upsetting than the fact that Claudia was apparently not even part of this so-called discussion about her. “I mean, if they’re both interested, and they both want to try it, where’s the harm?”

“Where’s the harm?” Artie echoed, practically foaming at the mouth by now. “Where’s the _harm_?” He pointed an accusing finger at HG— “ _She_ is a wanted felon!” —and then at Claudia. “And _she_ is just impossible!”

Infuriated, Claudia shoved back her chair and lurched defiantly to her feet. The room lurched as well, though in its case it was less ‘defiant’ and more ‘unpleasant’, and she had to bite down hard to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head as the ground pitched and swayed beneath her feet.

“Whatever,” she grated, hoping that the force of her ire would blind the others to the way she was struggling just to stay upright. “I’m outta here.”

“Claud, wait...” Myka said. “Don’t.”

She sighed, shaky with regret, and reached out to lay an apologetic hand on her shoulder. Claudia was done listening to these people when they refused to listen to her, though, and pulled away with more violence than the moment really needed.

“No!” she snapped, hurt and angry and feeling thoroughly awful. “I’m not a freakin’ toy, Myka! You guys don’t get to fight over me like I’m not here. Except when I’m, y’know, _actually_ not here.” She took a deep breath, and she really wasn’t at all sure whether it was her body or her soul that she was trying to calm. “So I just... I’m just gonna go away and not be here. So you guys can fight all you want without me.” Feeling suitably strengthened by her righteous fury, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, not really aiming it at any of them even if she had been able to make her eyes focus on anything just then. “’Cause, hey... we all know it’s not really me you’re fighting about, anyway.”

And, with that, she stormed out, the sound of Pete’s toast-muffled “You guys _suck_...” reverberating in her ringing ears.

She ran into Leena in the corridor. Literally, as it went down, in the ‘crashing headfirst into her chest’ sense, and she was so upset that she didn’t even bother telling her to watch where she was going.

“Good morning...” Leena blinked, a little startled but not really annoyed by the collision. She stepped back, took a beat or two to regain her ever-perfect footing, then eyed Claudia in that way she did sometimes, the way that made her feel exposed and a little bit naked, and left her feeling like her aura was being psychoanalysed or something. “...Claudia, you look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks, Leena,” Claudia shot back, voice cracking sharply – and no doubt noticeably, even to someone who wasn’t as annoyingly observant as Leena was – as the room spun yet again.

Her balance (such as it was) faltered, and she swayed. By reflex, Leena’s hands shot out to steady her, strong fingers clamped tightly around her arms. Claudia tried to struggle, but she didn’t have the strength; suddenly, Leena’s grip was the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground, and she wanted so desperately to hate it, but she was warm and she was solid and she wasn’t yelling like everyone else and... and...

“Claudia.” Her voice was the same as it always was, light and lilting, so freakin’ _Leena_ (and still, even now, Claudia couldn’t figure out whether that was a good thing or not), but overlaid this time with a sort of half-tremor that sounded dangerously like concern. “Claudia, something’s wrong.”

“You got that right,” Claudia growled, even as she felt the anger melt away under the heat of sorrow and discomfort. “They won’t...” She swallowed, not because her body felt sick, but because her heart did. “Leena, they won’t stop fighting. They won’t stop.”

“That’s not what I...” Leena studied her again, and seemed to think better than to say what she was thinking. “Claudia, I think you should sit down...”

“No!” She wasn’t even sure how she mustered the power to get the word out at all. “No. I don’t need to ‘sit down’.” Her knees tried to contend that point, and came really close to buckling in a shot at proving her wrong, but she willed them to lock, and they had no choice but to obey. “I just need some fracking air, okay? I just need to... I just need to get outta here.”

Leena sighed, and refused to let go of her arms. “Claudia,” she said again; Claudia hated the way that she said her name. “I really, _really_ don’t think you should go anywhere just now.”

Whether she was right about that or not, Claudia didn’t particularly care. She’d made up her mind to go for a walk, and she was sure as hell going to see it through. It was, by then, the only thing she could think of, the only idea her scattered mind could make out through the haze of dizzy delirium, the only thing in the whole world that could possibly make her feel better. She had to get out of there. If it killed her, she had to.

“Leena,” she snapped, wishing she had the strength of body or mind to sound anything other than tiny and pitiful, aching to shape the other woman’s name into something as annoying as what Leena did when she said hers. “I gotta get outta here, okay? I just gotta.” She sighed, but even to herself it sounded more like a whimper. “I got a headache, and I don’t feel good, and I just... I can’t deal with all of their stupid crap right now, too.” She was sliding into despair, she could feel it, but she kept her head up by sheer force of will. “I can’t deal with them, Leena. I _can’t_.”

“I understand,” Leena said, as ever the voice of aggravating empathy. “Do you want me to take you somewhere quiet?”

“I just want them to stop,” Claudia managed, the words so close to a sob that they almost choked her. “So you... you go do that. Go make them stop. And I’m... I’m gonna go take a walk, ’cause I... ’cause I just want to not be here. I can’t. I can’t be here, Leena. I can’t deal with them, and I can’t be here. So I’m gonna go be someplace else, and you can go deal with them.”

“Claudia,” Leena pleaded, but couldn’t seem to find anything more compelling. It was like Claudia’s name was all that she could remember how to say... not that it mattered, anyway, how many times she said it, because Claudia wasn’t listening any more.

“I’ll be back in, like, an hour,” she promised, and finally broke free from those deceptively strong hands. Half-blind, she turned, stumbling in the general direction of the front door. “Quit actin’ like I’m going to the freakin’ moon or something. It’s freakin’ Univille.”

And, with that, she spun around and stalked away.

She didn’t get very far. In fact, she’d barely even made it out of earshot of the B&B before her legs decided that they didn’t want to work at all any more, and gave out. Gasping, queasy and angry, she slumped to her knees, hitting the ground with enough force to shake her body right down to its bones, dirt and gravel staining her jeans and a choked-down “goddammit!” dying raw and unvoiced in her throat.

Of course, she didn’t cry. That would have been lame, and – as pathetic as she knew she was just then – ‘lame’ was one thing (probably the only thing) she tried not to be. It didn’t matter that she was alone here, that nobody could see her, that she was safe in her solitude, that the world she tried so hard to fool couldn’t see her. None of it mattered. What mattered was that she couldn’t let herself seem lame. Because she wasn’t. Because she couldn't be. Not even here.

And, if there was maybe a sting in her eyes? Well, that was totally because they were trying to focus on a world that kept freakin’ spinning, twisting and turning in front of her, refusing to stay still even as her eyes watered with the effort of pinning it down. It had nothing to do with what she was feeling, nothing to do with the memories of Myka and Artie and HG, voices all raised, drowning each other out, each one forgetting she was even there at all. No. If it was even there at all, the painful pulse behind her eyes, it was the product of the physical, not the emotional, and she was going to make sure it stayed that way.

So, no, she wouldn’t cry. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still indulge in a little bit of good old-fashioned uber-angst.

It wasn’t just because she felt like crap. It really, really wasn’t. The whole thing was just so freakin’ screwed up, so much of a mess that even the happiest person in the world would have given themselves a moment or two to break down, to just fall apart in blessed solitude and _cry_. Anyone would have. Because where she was right now – this place, this pain – it was torture. Plain and pure and simple, it was torture, and a far stronger soul than hers would have been lost to the pull of it by now.

The family that she’d come to know and love and maybe kind of sort of depend on a bit – more, the only real family she’d ever known, the closest thing to community she’d ever experienced in her short and troubled life – was pretty much completely and totally falling apart. It was breaking down right before her blurry eyes, tearing at its own seams like some kind of twisted-up masochist, cutting itself with its bitterness and its angry words, with its hate and its mistrust and its grudges and its pain and all the stupid vendettas that she didn’t even understand. So many things that didn’t make sense, and so many more that she didn’t want to.

And, yeah, maybe that was the worst part of the whole mess: _she didn’t understand_. She didn’t get why Artie couldn’t just accept that HG had iced McPherson because he was a colossal jackass, because he was a two-bit bastard who would have killed them all given half a chance. She didn’t get why Myka couldn’t just accept that maybe some of the others needed some time to adjust to the idea of having a not-evil living legend in their midst all of a sudden, that HG’s presence wasn’t as simple to them as it was to her. She didn’t... she couldn’t understand why it was all such a big freakin’ deal at all, why they couldn’t all just sit back and let it happen as it would, and adapt and deal with it and behave like the so-called grown-ups that they claimed to be. She didn’t understand any of it, not a single word. She didn’t know anything at all... and none of them, not one, would stop their stupid pointless endless fighting for five seconds to just explain it to her.

The one thing she did understand, though, was that she was getting really freaking tired of getting used like some kind of Monopoly token, passed back and forth between them like the sucky vegetable part of a meal, the part that no-one really wanted but everyone felt like they kind of had to eat anyway because it was ‘good for you’ or whatever... or, worse still, getting thrown up like a goddamned shield wall every time one of them wanted to deflect or block an attack from one of the others.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, and she hated it. She hated the way that they were treating her, the way that they were treating each other, the way that they didn’t even seem to realise they were doing it at all. Most of all, though, she hated the fact that she was letting herself hate it.

The feeling tasted bitter, weighed down like a load on her back. It tainted everything, cast shadows in every corner of the life she loved. Because this was the freakin’ Warehouse, and these screwed-up people were her freakin’ family, and she wasn’t supposed to hate them.

The thing was, the Warehouse was the one place – the only place in the whole damn world – where she’d ever felt safe. Like, really, truly, honest-to-whatever _safe_ , like she had a home and a haven, a place to go if she needed it, people who believed in her, a place where she could breathe, where she _belonged_. The kind of sanctuary that they talked about in those crappy 80s power ballads, all peace and hope and love, the kind she never thought she’d know. _Safe_ , like she’d always just sort of assumed she did not deserve.

So, hey, maybe it was all her own fault. She wasn’t thankful enough for what she’d been given; she was too bratty, too snarky, too obnoxious. She didn’t appreciate what she had, and then cried like a little punk when it was threatened. She wasn’t grateful, wasn’t good or brave or strong. She wasn’t graceful enough, wasn’t tough enough, wasn’t old enough or smart enough or cool enough. She wasn’t enough of anything.

Maybe this whole mess really was of her own making Maybe there was some smartass deity sitting up on a cloud somewhere, looking down and judging her, punishing her by punishing everyone she cared about, yanking the rug out from under her and making her wish that she could have been a better person, making her wish that she’d been more thankful, that she’d appreciated what she had before it got all screwed up.

Or maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe it wasn’t that her almost-perfect world was being taken away from her; maybe it was just that she really hadn’t deserved it, after all. Maybe none of it had ever been there in the first place.

_God_. She had spent so long, so many sleepless nights when she’d first been taken in by Artie and the others, lying awake in her bed at the B &B, the bed that hadn’t felt like it was really hers for a very long time, just staring up at the ceiling and waiting to be dragged back out. She hadn’t just worried about it, she’d flat-out expected it, anticipated the moment that a cold and clinical voice would boom down at her and pull her out of this new place – this crazy-magical world of endless wonder. She could hear it so vividly, all sugar-coated malice, telling her that she was hallucinating again, that crazy-magical Warehouses didn’t exist in the real world, that endless wonder was just an idealised notion thrown like breadcrumbs for gullible children... that she couldn’t bring her brother back from the dead just because she missed him, or inject herself into a world of steampunk badassery just because it was cool, that she couldn’t do anything at all, that she was just a sick kid who needed help.

The real world – at least, the world that she had come to accept as true – simply didn’t work the way that the Warehouse said it did, and she’d spent the longest time, months on months, just waiting for the fantasy to break apart and leave her stranded in her self-made lunacy.

And maybe... just maybe... maybe, at long last, that moment had come.

Maybe all of this crap was just her brain finally kicking her in the metaphorical ’nads and telling her that she’d been hiding behind impossible things for long enough now, that the real world wanted its payback, that she just needed to drop her guard down far enough ( _just a little more, Claudia, just a little more..._ ) and she would wake up in a straitjacket.

It scared her. Deeply, fundamentally, and on a level she hadn’t even known she had until she realised just how impossible it was to get air. And it wasn’t just fear, either, anxiety and worry, the pounding of her heart behind her ribs; no, this was real, pure, unrelenting _terror_ , ice-hot in her head and vice-tight in her chest, her body twisted up and shaking and lost in the pure physicality of it, right on the brink of shutting down, and... and...

...and then maybe she kind of was crying a little bit (and by ‘a little bit’, she maybe possibly totally meant ‘a whole freaking lot’) because she couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t see, and she couldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t stop, she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t _stop_...

She had no idea how long she stayed there, locked in a prison of her own making... but, if the look on Pete’s face when he found her was any indication, it was at least a few hours.

He looked terrified, if the blurry-edged lines of his face were any indication, almost more so even than she herself felt, and the fierce – nay, actually violent – hug that he pulled her into was nearly enough to crush what little was left of her lungs.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted, a roughness borne so much more of fear than anger, though the words were for the most part lost to the top of her head as he held her tight. “We’ve been goin’ nuts looking for you! We tried calling your cell, tried buzzing you on the ol’ Farnsworth... pretty sure I even suggested a megaphone at one point... and nada. Nothin’! Do you have any idea how worried we were about you, you dumbass?!”

Claudia tried to apologise, but her mouth wouldn’t work. Not that it mattered anyway, because Pete was still ranting at her head.

“Man, Artie is gonna tear you a new one when he finds out you were—” He cut himself off, possibly suddenly feeling the way that she was trembling and shuddering against him, and drew back a little to take a proper look at her. Instantly, his face fell. “...oh, _Claud_.”

She forced out his name, a barely-there rasp, then Artie’s and Myka’s. She tried to say HG’s, too, but it hurt too much even just to think it.

“Hey...” he murmured, voice tripping over the softness. The fear-triggered anger was long gone now, and all that was left in its wake was sympathy and compassion; it was probably an homage to the state she was in, Claudia thought dimly, that she didn’t even have the strength to be offended by it. “Hey. It’s okay. I got you.” He wrapped his arms around her once more, a whole lot gentler this time, and rocked them both. “I got you, Claud... I got you...”

She sobbed into his shirt, impossible animal noises wrenching out from the depths of her, and it wasn’t because she felt safe, or because she felt like it was okay to cry in front of him – because he was Pete and he was like her big brother and he understood and he was cool with this kind of thing – or because she knew she’d find tears in his eyes too, if only she looked up and met his gaze. It wasn’t anything like that. It was because she just couldn’t stop. She felt broken, utterly lost, like the pieces of herself no longer fit where they were supposed to, like they would never fit anywhere at all, ever again, and she wanted it all to end but it didn’t and all she could do was cry, cry, cry, and it hurt but she _couldn’t stop_.

By the time Pete pulled back again, and Claudia looked up to meet the tear-blurred face she knew so well, he was starting to look a little helpless. He was completely out of his depth in this, she knew, but the set of his jaw said he wasn’t going to let that stop him. If she needed him, he’d be there, fast as light, whether he was any good at it or not. Because he was Pete freakin’ Lattimer, and that was just how he rolled.

The absurdity of the thought should have made her laugh, but it didn’t. It just made her cry even harder. He would do that for her. He was rolling that way for _her_.

“Hey,” he urged, uncomfortably soft. “It’s okay. I hate it when they fight, too...”

She opened her mouth to say something, to break apart the twisted-up corners of her mind that couldn’t make sense of anything, to beg and plead and cry for him to make it all stop – the fighting, the fear, the sickness in her head that had her seeing white walls and padded cells, the headache and the vertigo and everything, everything, everything – but it was hopeless. Even if she could speak, which she couldn’t, she knew that there was nothing he could do about it; she was beyond help, and he was beyond helping.

Anyway, as it went down, even if she could have formed the words through the howling in her head and the stuttering of her tears, she didn’t get the chance, because, in the exact same instant that she sucked down a ragged salt-stifled breath, Pete’s Farnsworth started vibrating, and that was the end of it all.

His face was like flint as he opened it up, angling the screen so that she couldn’t see it; it was a pretty pointless move, really, because she didn’t need to see it to recognise the voice. The familiar up-and-down pitch – _“Peeeeete! Did you find her?”_ – was unmistakeable: of course it was Myka.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I got her, Mykes. She’s...” He glanced over the little device, locked eyes with Claudia as best he could, given that she still couldn’t really focus on anything, then simply added, “You guys screwed up”, and slammed the device shut.

Claudia whimpered, the sound cutting through the sobs and quieting them for a moment or two. She managed his name again, then a tremulous, rough-edged “please”, but she had no more idea of what she was asking for than he did.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he said, and his voice made it clear that he was seriously rattled, and getting more so by the moment. “Let’s get you home.”

Her mouth tried instinctively to shape the word, to repeat it and swallow it down, to soak up the sliver of comfort that it offered - _home, home, home_ \- but her tongue couldn’t wrap itself around the syllable at all, much less shape it into audible sound, and so instead she just nodded stupidly in wordless hiccupping consent.

Apparently sensing that she wasn’t in any condition to offer anything resembling input of any description, Pete gave her shoulder a gently reassuring squeeze. “You think you can stand?”

More than anything else in the world just then, Claudia wished that the answer could have been ‘yes’. She wanted to have something, just one tiny little thing that she could do under her own power, one thing that she could cling to, a piece of her that still worked like it was supposed to. But she didn’t need to try it to know that it wasn’t even worth thinking about, much less wishing for. Of course she couldn’t stand. She couldn’t do anything.

Hiding her face behind her hair, too ashamed to look at him even if she could still see, she shook her head. “Sorry,” she blurted out, the word rippled from within her by a force beyond her control... and, of course, once she’d said it once, suddenly she was repeating it over and over and over until it lost all meaning, until it was all she could hear or think. She didn’t even know what she was apologising for – nothing, everything, nothing, _everything_ – but she could no more stop doing it than she could have stopped crying just before.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa...” Pete cried, taken aback by the flood of barely-audible apologies. “You got nothing to be sorry for, Claud.” He tilted her face up, tried yet again to connect with her blurry gaze, and the urgency radiating out from him wormed its way into her and itched under her skin. “ _Claud_. Hey. No-one is pissed at you. Not even Artie... and, hey, we both know how big a deal it is when that happens.” He mustered a grin, but it was weak. “You got nothing to apologise for, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She tried to laugh, if only for the sake of politeness, but all that came out was another hiccup. Well, that and a sort of hopeless, pitiful little whine, the kind of noise that would have probably left her utterly mortified if she’d had enough strength left in her to feel anything at all except sick and scared. Because that was bullshit; there were so many things she’d done wrong, so many she couldn’t count them all. She knew that Pete was just trying to make her feel better, to offer what meagre comfort he could with brittle words, but it was pointless. Because she had done wrong, and she deserved this.

“All righty, then...” Pete sighed, apparently sensing that she wasn’t buying it. He was clearly disappointed, and worried too, but he didn’t push; he just sighed again, and set his hands awkwardly at her back, bracing himself to lift her. “All aboard the Lattimer Express, I guess.”

Naturally, when they got back to the B&B, all hell broke loose.

They had barely made it through the door (or, more accurately, Pete had barely made it through the door, with his arms full of Claudia) before they were lambasted from three completely different directions by frantic Warehouse agents.

“Where have you _been_?” Myka cried, voice high and squeaky.

“What were you _thinking_?” Artie demanded at the same time.

“Are you _all right_?” HG asked, soft but with no less emotion.

The barrage was literally the last thing in any given universe that Claudia needed just then. Sure, it was a mark of how much they cared, a reminder that she was wanted here, that she was loved and cared for... but she felt so awful, so broken and screwed-up that it was more than she could do to process that many voices at once, and she pressed her face against Pete’s shirt collar and willed him (wordlessly because she could not speak) to just please make them all shut up and go away.

“Guys...” he said, understanding in a heartbeat. “C’mon. Back off. Give her some room.”

Of course, they were all talking and shouting and yelling (at her, at each other, at anyone who would listen), all at the same time, and so they didn’t hear him. Or, if they did, they definitely didn’t pay him any attention. They just kept right on, doing what they did best, and leaving Claudia feeling worse by the moment and Pete’s heart-rate quickening angrily against her ribs.

Artie, being Artie, just wanted to know what she’d been thinking, the question repeating itself in endless Surround Sound, like he would somehow be able to force the answer out of her if he shook her hard enough, while Myka fussed and clucked and waved her arms around like a nervous mother hen, worried in a good way but so hyper-protective that Claudia felt more suffocated than safe. And HG... HG kept trying to manoeuvre herself around and in front of the other two, trying to get right up close and see for herself whether or not Claudia was all right, all the time offering what sounded like terms of endearment, weighted with sincerity and honey-smooth with slick British enunciation.

It was all too much. Too much input, too many clashing voices saying too many different things at the same time, and Claudia was already having too much trouble just trying to keep her head from exploding. She couldn’t deal with this as well, couldn’t breathe past it, could not endure it. The keening whimper that cut free from her was mostly drowned in the fabric of Pete’s shirt, but he heard it just the same.

“Guys!” he barked again, louder, and this time they did shut up. He nodded his approval, the gesture shaking his whole body, but Claudia could feel the tension still in him, whip-tight and binding. “You’re not helping,” he said sharply. Then, again, because apparently they still did not get it, loudly and pointedly, “ _Back off_.”

“What’s wrong?” Myka asked, suddenly all hushed panic as it hit her that Pete – of all people – was actually being serious. “Oh my God... is it her head?”

“Her head?” Artie echoed, seeming to forget Claudia was there for a moment as his voice suddenly twitched with suspicion. “Why would you...” He trailed off, and Claudia heard herself groan in sync with Myka as the penny dropped. “What did you do?!”

“Artie, shut up.” It was Claudia’s own voice, she was certain, but she had no awareness of having actually said the words at all.

Myka, again, made a point of ignoring both of them, locking in on Pete like he was the only one in the room just then. “Peeeeeete?”

“I don’t know, Mykes, okay?” he snapped, the words bitten off more much sharply than Claudia had ever heard him speak to his partner, at least for as long as she’d known them. “Only thing I know is that something is mondo wrong.”

Artie was still fixed on Myka. “What happened?” he demanded, not for the first time, and his voice was rich with acid.

Tangibly frustrated with all of their crap, Pete made a loud noise and pushed through all three of them. “You guys can spend the whole day arguing about this if you want,” he muttered, and Claudia felt the muscles in his chest twitch and tense as he fought to keep from shouting. “I don’t care. And neither does she. So you guys just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll take care of what really matters.”

“Agent Lattimer is quite correct,” HG agreed softly (like they’d even listen to her anyway). “The poor thing is clearly in a great deal of distress. Now is not the time for histrionics.”

“Yeah,” Pete grunted, grateful for the support but obviously still furious at the situation. “That. So start helping, or back off and get outta my way.”

It didn’t surprise Claudia at all that they chose the latter option. Why would they help if it meant they’d have to stop fighting?

Pete held her tightly as he navigated the stairs and corridor to her room, and it was almost more than Claudia could do to keep from bursting into tears all over again. She’d given up on even trying to keep her eyes open, but she knew that if she did make the effort, if she tried to look around, she would find herself met with bleak white walls and hospital lights. The world was cracking around her, breaking apart a bit more with every breath she failed to take, and there wasn’t enough left to cling to any more.

She could hear Myka and Artie yelling at each other through the walls and the floors and whatever the hell else had put itself in between them, their voices surrealistically distorted by the barriers. It was like a movie dream sequence, like she was underwater, except she was pretty sure that it would’ve been easier for her to breathe if she’d really been 40,000 leagues under the sea, or whatever, than it was here.

“It’s okay, Claud,” Pete told her, setting her down on her bed. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand, a fleeting moment that she didn’t even fully register before it was gone, and she imagined him frowning. “I’m gonna go get Leena to take care of you...” he went on, dismissing any protestations she might have made with the carelessness of his voice, “...and then I’m gonna go back downstairs and kick all of their asses for you.”

Claudia wanted to argue, even tried to, but she didn’t have the strength. She didn’t want him to go, didn’t want to be left alone with the ghosts in her head, even for just a few minutes until Leena arrived to take over. She didn’t want to be by herself, left alone to fight down the madness and the sickness, the headache and the vertigo all on her own, to resist the shaking and the sobbing all alone. No, please, no. She wasn’t brave enough for that. She wasn’t strong enough.

All of a sudden, more than anything else in the world, she wanted Joshua.

He always took care of her when she got scared, always looked after her when she wasn’t feeling good, always held her hand when she needed him to (even when she didn’t ask). He always knew – without even trying or needing her to tell him what to do, he just _knew_ – how to make her feel better, how to make the pain feel like it was less than it really was; he always knew what to do, what to say, what to give her, and she needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone before in her life.

Joshua. Her brother, who she’d spent her life trying to save, and who she so desperately needed to save her now.

But he was gone. He was dead, or possibly not-dead, or in Switzerland, or in an inter-dimensional space, or... or... somewhere. Anywhere. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter which of those places was his home now, whether he was alive or not, in Switzerland or in Hell. It didn’t matter, because he wasn’t _here_. She needed him, needed him to be her big brother, to be her Joshua, to be here with her and take care of her like only a real big brother could... but he wasn’t and he wouldn’t. He wasn’t here. Wherever he was, he wasn’t here.

And then Pete was gone too, and she was alone, the one thing that she didn’t want to be, with her hitching breath bouncing like tennis balls off the walls and the ceiling and disappearing into the air (or maybe the inter-dimensional space) until even they were no companion any more. She wanted to cry again, to fill the space and the silence with sobs and screams, but her throat was dry and her eyes were blind and she was useless.

It was a hundred lifetimes before she heard the sound of her own name, soft sweet syllables coming from a place that was not her own head, lilting and light, and the cadence of it was so ethereally perfect, so unexpectedly beautiful that she found herself lurching upwards to try and find its source.

“Don’t.”

It was Leena. Of course it was Leena; it was always Leena, whether she wanted her there or not. Always there, with her stupid voice and her stupid compassion, bleeding the emotion right out of her, even when she wanted to keep it. Usually she would be angry, reflexively wild, lashing out like a feral creature and driving right through the woman’s chest with everything in her, making her regret the moment she ever took an interest. But not this time. This time, for once, she wanted it all bled out, wanted someone else to tear the feeling from her, wanted Leena and her magical second sight, wanted her to look at her and see her and know who and what and how she was, to see all the things she couldn’t see or understand in herself. She wanted it so desperately, this thing that she usually fought so violently, and that terrified her.

“Lie still, Claudia,” Leena was saying, and her voice rent the air with the most beautiful warmth Claudia had ever felt. “Just lie still, and try to stay calm.”

“Don’t leave me...” she heard herself beg, and couldn’t even hate herself for it. “Please, don’t go away...”

There was pain in Leena’s voice when she spoke again. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere, Claudia, I promise.” There were hands on her face, then, tender trailing touches, and she found herself leaning into them, reflexive, like they were a part of her. “Just breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Her voice – familiar in a way that was unfamiliar – gave Claudia fortitude enough to answer with actual honesty. She couldn’t see, could barely think, could only hear as though listening through water, and yet something about the tone of her voice – that same voice that so often made her want to punch the walls with frustration – made something in her cry out to tell the truth.

“I can’t do _anything_.” The confession cut sharp and keen, cold as a razor-blade and tight as a tourniquet. “I can’t... I can’t stop them fighting and I can’t bring Joshua back and I can’t invent a whole new world out of nothing just ‘cause I wanna be safe. I can’t do... I can’t do anything... I can’t...”

“Claudia.” The name rippled with warmth and strength, grounding her in all the things that she didn’t deserve, all the things that were not hers to claim. “Claudia, you’re not well. All these things you’re feeling... it’s just because of that.”

“I know,” she managed, with the kind of conviction that tore through the tension and the terror, through the traumas and the tremors, carving a path through her soul, laying every last part of her completely to waste, and she knew she was supposed to hate it, knew that it was not what Warehouse!Claudia would want, but it felt so good, a cool balm on her fevered mind, that she couldn’t help but embrace it. “I know, I’m sick.”

“That’s right,” Leena said, quiet confidence bleeding through that gentle voice, and Claudia ached with what little was left in her to hear her say her name again. “That’s all it is. You’re sick... and you’re feeling things that don’t make sense. But it’s—”

“I know,” Claudia repeated numbly. “I know it’s not real.”

“That’s right.” Leena’s voice was smiling. “Good, Claudia.”

The reassurance was all she needed. “Because I’m crazy.”


	8. Chapter 8

“She was fine!”

Given the choice, Myka would have really preferred the outburst to have sounded a little more professional and a lot less panicked. Given the situation, however, she supposed that the latter sentiment, such as it was, was at least mostly understandable.

It didn’t do much to calm Hurricane Artie, though, and she found herself reflexively taking a couple of long steps back, placing Helena surreptitiously between them as he hissed (for about the eighth time in the last three minutes), “What. Happened. In. London.”

“Nothing!” she insisted (also for about the eighth time in the same three minutes). “She just fell over, because she’s Claudia and that’s her specialist skill, and hit her head on the floor. A little bit. Maybe.” Put like that, it didn’t sound very good. “But it was nothing!”

“Maybe?!” he echoed, thoroughly aghast. “A little bit?! _Nothing_?!”

“She was perfectly fine, Artie!” Myka snapped, annoyed by the constant interruption; how did he expect her to tell the story if he kept cutting her off every time she tried to tell it? “Her ego was more bruised than her skull, for the love of God!”

“I can believe that,” Helena observed quietly, as though expecting that would ease the tension, then chewed her lip and slipped back into thoughtful silence.

“And you didn’t see fit to inform me?” Artie raged, practically alight with impotent fury. “One of my agents hits their head, and you don’t think it might be a good idea to let me know?”

“It was _Claudia_ ,” Myka reminded him, as kindly as she could, which was not very under the circumstances. “If we ‘let you know’ every time she falls over or hits something, we’d be calling you fifty times a day.”

“Then you call me fifty times a day!” he roared back (somewhat unreasonably, Myka thought). “You’re the last one I would’ve expect this sort of behaviour from!” he ranted furiously.

“That’s just not fair!” she cried; she would’ve kept going, but for the sudden light pressure of Helena’s hand over hers. “I checked her thoroughly, Artie! Twice! Don’t you think I would have made absolutely sure she was fine? Don’t you think I would’ve been especially careful with Claudia, more than anyone else, after what happened the last time? God, Artie, what do you think I was doing over there? Playing soccer with David Beckham?”

“Myka.” Helena punctuated the word with a delicate brush of her fingertips across the backs of Myka’s knuckles, just subtle enough not to be noticed by Artie and his rage, but tangible enough to set Myka’s skin on fire where they touched. “Surely there are more pressing issues than this at the moment...”

“Uh, _schyeah_.” It was, of course, Pete, marking his return with his usual exaggerated flourish. “Like – hey, hey, hey! – how about the sick, scared, screwed-up kid, cryin’ her eyes out upstairs?” He spread his arms wide, taking in all three of them, and glared in a way that was so unlike him Myka’s blood turned ice-cold at the sight of it. “What the hell is wrong with you idiots?”

“Is she all right?” asked Helena, dodging the rhetorical question by pretending it had never existed at all. “She looked terribly unwell this morning, to say nothing of her state just now.”

Pete set his jaw, fists balled at his sides. He was trying so hard to be angry, but even his most furious glare just made him look frightened, and that in turn caused the panic to surge anew in Myka’s chest until it overrode even her irritation at Artie. It must have affected him, too, in fact, because suddenly he wasn’t yelling at her, he was just staring at Pete too, not angry or demanding, but helpless and hopeless and fearful. The look on his face was so unlike him, and all the more so directed as it was at Pete, that it almost made Myka forget that she was still angry with him.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Pete said; he was talking almost exclusively at Myka, she noticed, oblivious to the way that Artie was looking at him, and to the look on Helena’s face as she watched them both. She knew it was because he was hoping that she would be the strong one, in this as she was in so many things, that she would be tough and calm and rational, that she would help to keep his head above the rising water. “She was totally freaked out, Mykes. I mean, she was scared out of her mind.” He exhaled, as much to calm himself as to let them process what he was telling them. “If it _is_ the head injury thing that’s screwing with her – and I’m not sayin’ it is, Artie, man, so don’t you start getting all down on me as well – but if it is... it’s really, really bad.”

Hearing it from him, he who had no reason to blame her for anything, who was holding no grudges against her right now, Myka’s defiance dwindled and sputtered into nonexistence. “She was okay,” she said again, but even to her own ears it was starting to sound more like a plea than an assurance. “I swear she was okay.”

“Well, she’s kind of pretty much the exact opposite of ‘okay’ now,” Pete muttered, quite uncharacteristically aggressive. “And you guys fighting all the damn time ain’t makin’ her feel any better, you dig?”

It was a noble effort, but it was fruitless. Myka was in no mood just then to repent for her aggression – not when she was in the right! – and Artie seemed no more inclined to do the same. Besides which, there were more pressing issues than reconciliation at that moment, and Myka found her mind racing, whirling with visions of Claudia on the cold museum floor, trying to remember how she could have devolved from characteristic attitude to putting that look of horror on Pete’s face in so short a time. Had she missed something? Could she have?

“God.” She ran a hand through her hair, trying to keep her panic in check, willing herself to believe in her own judgement. “She was _fine_. She was totally fine.”

“Mykes...” Pete was starting to sound a little tortured now, voice strangled and cracking, like he knew he was about to rock a boat already on the brink of capsizing. “She kinda... well, she wasn’t really, was she?”

“What are you talking about?” Myka demanded, spinning to scowl at him; she knew him well enough to know that he was not trying to cause trouble, but he couldn’t have failed to realise that he was insinuating things that would make Artie even more furious than he already was. If he was trying to help, he was doing exactly the opposite by pointing the finger at her. “She was doing great. A little jetlagged, I guess... but, hey, it was her first trans-Atlantic mission. You expect someone to be out of it after that.”

Pete crossed his arms, glancing at Artie for a second or two before turning back to Myka, as though he was trying to calculate in his mind the best method of broaching the issue without getting her into trouble. He looked so distressed by the thought, so conflicted, that Myka felt her aggravation start to cool in spite of herself. He did know, and he hated that he had to say anything at all, and that alone told her that he was on her side after all, for all that his words told a different story. So, then, feeling a sense of dread that settled like a rock in the pit of her stomach, tilted her head in wordless invitation for him to just get the whole thing over with.

“Mykes...” He blew out a cautious breath, then closed his eyes. “She really didn’t look good. When I picked you guys up, I mean. She looked... she looked pretty crappy.” He shook his head, dismissing the inevitable argument before she could make it, and pressed on. “I don’t mean like ‘jetlag’ crappy. I mean like ‘I just got this car cleaned, she’d better not ruin the upholstery’ crappy. That’s a pretty big difference.”

“She was _not_ that bad!” Myka protested. “She was just a little disoriented, that’s all...”

Frowning, she trailed off. The truth was, she couldn’t really remember it nearly so well as she wanted to believe she did. She’d been distracted, she realised, obsessing over Pete and Helena and what had (or hadn’t) been going on with them, hoping that they were getting along, basking her anger over the fact that Helena hadn’t been the one to come with her to London, making plans in her head of all the things she wanted to say to Artie when they were all back together in the Warehouse.

Sure, she had been worried about Claudia when she’d fallen... but it was Claudia, and she would’ve probably been more worried if the poor girl _hadn’t_ taken a spill at least once during the mission. There had been no harm done, there really hadn’t. And of course she had been saddened to see her so miserable during the flight home, so uncomfortable and unhappy, but, as much as it had tugged at her heart to see her suffering, it had been understandable.

Thing was, it had made sense. At least, so she had told herself. It had made sense because, though she really was fine, Claudia had nonetheless taken a spill and there would naturally be some residual discomfort from that. It had made sense because Myka had already seen how much Claudia had struggled with the outbound flight, and the combined effect of jetlag, a long night of artefact-hunting, and her own self-loathing could only have made it even worse on the return. It had made sense because...

...because she’d wanted it to.

Claudia had been an inconvenience, she realised, overpowered by guilt. She had been there, and she’d tried, and she’d worked hard and Myka had really and genuinely appreciated her presence... but, in all honesty, her thoughts the whole mission had been in other places and on other people. She hadn’t wanted to look at Claudia, or think about her, or be responsible for her, or even to deal with presence there her at all. She had just wanted Helena.

She didn’t need to say it out loud. The look on Pete’s face told her that he already knew – as he always did, whether by his so-called ‘vibes’ or just because he knew her too well – and the way that Artie was starting to turn a dangerous shade of purple was evidence enough that he was going to blame her feelings about Helena anyway, not caring that he might actually be a little justified in doing so. It was a cutting blow, knowing that he was blaming her for being distracted, not caring whether it was true or not, when the evidence seemed to be that it was.

“If I may...”

The voice was Helena’s, tentatively pressing, a flashlight through the fog of silence. She could clearly sense that the discussion was heading in a direction it shouldn’t be, that an implosion was imminent, and Myka was deeply grateful for her attempts at diffusing the situation before it could happen, even as she must have known that she was the one person among them who was likely to be ignored – or, worse, dismissed – simply for being who she was.

“Perhaps,” she mused, even so, “it would be best to return to this discourse at a later date? Surely the most prudent course of action at the present moment would be to acquire some degree of medical assistance for the poor child, if she truly is as distressed as Agent Lattimer claims?”

There was a darkness behind her eyes, though Myka suspected she was the only one who could see it, a troubled kind of torture, stone-cold sorrow, and she wondered if Helena’s mind was slipping back into the void of her own past, her lost daughter. Her heart flared hot with sympathy, if only for a second before the guilt surged back up to drown it. Here she was again, she thought (a moment and a mission too late), with Claudia in trouble and Myka thinking only of Helena.

“You...” Artie started, jabbing an accusatory finger at Helena; he had a diatribe already half-formed on his lips (Myka could read every word of it in the lines around his mouth), but Pete thankfully cut him off before he could give it voice.

“She’s right, man,” he said, and Myka couldn’t help wondering how and when he’d become the mature one of them; it was so wrong, so completely surreal, and yet she was so grateful that she couldn’t bring herself to care. “Quit being Mr Sourpuss Jerk-Face for five minutes, and go call Doctor Vanessa already.” Then, because he was still Pete at heart, a sly grin split his face, cracking the tension wide open. “’Cause we all know you want to.”

It had the desired effect: Artie stopped mid-finger-jab and let loose a furious (but grudgingly acceptant) growl. “Fine!” he barked, then rounded momentarily onto Myka. “But don’t you think for one second that this conversation is over.”

As soon as he was gone, Myka sank to her knees, the weight of the guilt too heavy for her to bear without him there to bolster her pride with the façade of confidence. Helena knelt beside her, one hand on her shoulder and the other at her wrist, but Pete made a tangible point of keeping a distance from them both.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Mykes,” he said, but the sincerity that came so naturally to his voice couldn’t quite reach his eyes when she looked up to meet them. “You couldn’t have known.” He breathed deep, in and out, and she watched his jaw ripple with tension as he visibly fought to keep from losing his temper. “I was in the car with her, too, and I didn’t notice it either.”

“Why would you?” she asked mournfully. “You assumed _I_ would have. You assumed that I would’ve taken care of her, that I would’ve done my job and taken care of her, that I would’ve known if something was wrong. You assumed that I’d done what I was supposed to do. If I told you she was okay, and I was with her for the whole mission, why would you have thought different?”

“Because I never listen to you?” he suggested with a shrug, the words serious despite their surface simplicity. “Because I could’ve used my own instincts, or paid better attention, or listened to my vibes, or...” He trailed off, jaw bone-white. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you didn’t catch it, but neither did I. Neither of us caught it, and either of us could have. The signs were right there, and neither of us wanted to see ’em. Neither of us, Mykes.”

It was a commendable effort, but it didn’t make her feel any better. The fact was, however hard he might try to paint it a different colour, it had never been Pete’s responsibility to catch it in the first place. It had been hers, and hers alone. She was the one who had been there, in London, who had been given charge of Claudia as the senior agent. She was the one who’d spent half the outbound plane journey talking big about wanting to help Claudia blossom and develop as an agent, waxing lyrical about how she was so honoured to help her get experience in the field, to help her grow and learn... and she was the one who had been in charge. It was Myka who was supposed to have protected her, whose responsibility it had been to look after her, who should have taken her to a goddamned hospital, no matter how supposedly ‘fine’ she was, to make damn sure that she wasn’t concussed. It had been her responsibility. All of it, hers and hers alone, and anything that happened to Claudia now was all her fault.

She looked up, then, with wide wet eyes, letting the nimble contact of Helena’s touches steady her to voice the horror devouring her mind. “What if she’s got brain damage, Pete?”

The colour drained from his face, and, for a brief but telling moment, he looked terrified. “Don’t...” he said, forcing himself to recover his composure before she could notice how rattled he was. “Don’t say stuff like that. Don’t even think it.”

“Why not?” she asked roughly. “We both know it’s possible.”

“Myka,” Helena interjected; she looked frightened as well, the fear running bone-deep and turning her face translucent. “Let’s not get ourselves worked up into a frenzy before we know all the facts of the situation. We will be of little value to Claudia if we’re too blinded by our own fears to help her.”

“She’s right, Mykes,” Pete said, scared but resolved to do the right thing, even if he’d have to fight every one of them to get there. “We gotta take this thing one step at a time.”

That was the last thing she wanted to hear, and the last thing she felt at liberty to do. Myka Bering was not a patient individual, even at the best of times, and if there was ever a situation that called for impatience – for action and reaction, for doing and not sitting around thinking – it was this one. She didn’t want to sit on her heels and do nothing, spinning uselessly in place while Claudia suffered the effects of her neglect. She didn’t want to waste her time worrying while other people – Doctor Calder and Artie and whoever else – did her job for her and figured out what was wrong. She couldn’t. She couldn’t just sit there, helpless and guilt-stricken, and wait for somebody else to tell her how badly she’d screwed up.

But then, at the same time, there wasn’t really anything else she could do. She couldn’t make Claudia better by willing her to be better, couldn’t undo the damage that had been done to her simply by regretting the fact that she’d let it happen, couldn’t go back in time make herself see that it was there simply because she couldn’t un-see it now. The truth was, nothing was pretty much all that she could do, and the only solace she could draw from it lay in imagining the helplessness as a kind of penance for the hurt she’d wrought.

It was Helena who suggested that they go upstairs to see the patient, to ask if there was anything they could do to ease her distress while they waited for Doctor Calder. Her eyes shimmered as she spoke, with something that Myka couldn’t place, and the sight of them made her heart ache ever more powerfully; whatever Artie might think of her, the so-called viper in their midst, it was moments like this that proved beyond all doubt where Helena’s loyalties lay. For all the deception that could be hidden, nobody could fabricate compassion that cut so deeply.

Pete was wary, and Myka supposed she could understand why; for all that he loved to play his indifference to pretty much everything that required serious contemplation ever, he was fiercely protective when it came to the people he cared about. Myka and Claudia both fit into that category, and she could see him fighting to reconcile the part of him that wanted to protect Myka from her own self-blame with the part that wanted to protect Claudia from all the drama that would inevitably follow wherever they went. He didn’t want his little buddy, whatever state she was in, to deal with Myka and Helena and all their issues. He didn’t want Claudia’s moment to be about them, and, hard as her instincts wanted to argue against that, Myka understood.

Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter. They got as far as the corridor, stopping outside the bedroom door... and, in the exact moment Helena let go of her hand for the half-second that it would take to reach for the handle, Myka realised that she couldn’t go in. She couldn’t.

Pete didn’t notice her sudden step backwards, occupied as he was by the effort of steeling his own nerves, but Helena did, and she stopped what she was doing to turn and study her. “Myka?”

“I can’t,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Mykes,” Pete offered. “It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is your fault.” His expression darkened, then, like what he was thinking didn’t mesh with the reassurances failing from his lips. “But, even if it was, it doesn’t matter now. Claudia doesn’t care who did what to who or why. She doesn’t care what happened, or whether you coulda woulda shoulda done anything to prevent it, or whatever. She doesn’t care about any of that stuff at all. She’s just _scared_.” 

Myka swallowed. “I...”

Pete growled, deep and low in his throat, and it was so close to angry that Myka was actually a little started. “You don’t get it, do you? She’s not the big bad wannabe Warehouse apprentice right now, Mykes. She doesn’t need you to have her back in the field or stop her from getting hurt. She’s already hurt. It’s done, it’s happened, and you can’t undo that. And she... she doesn’t care how it happened, just that it did. She’s just this scared little kid who doesn’t have anyone except us, and she needs us to tell her she’s gonna be okay. So forget about the rest of it, okay? Forget about being Agent Bering, who screwed up on a mission, or whatever else you think of yourself. Just nut up and be _Myka_.”

Myka’s chest ached, and her mind flashed briefly to Claudia’s anxiety on the plane, how startling it had been to see her not trying to cover up her fears, how unlike her the lapse had been. She’d been tense and petulant, just like she always was when she was out of her depth (which, despite her bravado, was often), but she hadn’t denied it, and that in itself had struck Myka on a level that had surprised her. But, if Pete was to be believed, this was something worse even than that... far worse... and, regardless of whether or not it was her fault that it had happened – hell, regardless of anything at all, really – Myka wasn’t sure she could handle that.

“If you would prefer to wait out here...” Helena said, ever the effortful diplomat, “I’ll present your best wishes to her.”

“Nice,” Pete muttered; Myka could tell that it wasn’t really Helena he was taking issue with, or even her offer, and she let his disdain wash over her like a wave. “That’s just great, Myka. You really think she’s gonna be an okay substitute?” He shot a quick apologetic glance at Helena, a nice gesture given the situation. “No offense, HG.”

“None taken,” she said with a sad smile, even as Myka felt her own face redden with anger. “You only meant that Claudia holds dear Agent Bering in far higher esteem than somebody who, by her own admission, has only been here for a very short while.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Pete cried, tangibly grateful for the fact that at least someone was grasping what he was trying to say, then rounded back on Myka. “She’s not gonna want HG, Mykes. She’s gonna want _you_.”

“Well, that’s just stupid,” Myka muttered, frustration overpowering the fact that she was actually kind of flattered by the idea (as deluded as it no doubt was). “Why would she?”

Helena sighed, and Myka spun to look at her. “Darling, there is a great deal to admire in you. Claudia would be a foolish young woman indeed not to see it. And you and I both know that ‘foolish’ is one thing Miss Donovan certainly is not.”

Aggravated by that line of thinking, and not wanting to give either her or Pete any more of an opportunity to make her feel more terrible about the whole thing than she already was, Myka gulped down a bracing breath, and defiantly threw open the door.

Claudia lay on the bed, fully clothed and curled up in a tight little ball. Much to Myka’s relief, the distress on her face was hidden from view, even as the noises tearing from her were not; they weren’t loud, more like whimpers than cries, but they carried across the room with all the force of a roar, deep and raw and barely human. Beside her, Myka felt Pete exhale, a sound caught between a reactive gasp and a stuttered sigh, some sad combination of having known exactly what he’d find and pain at actually seeing it, and, on her other side, she felt Helena’s entire body stiffen and twitch with unvoiced emotion.

At the bedside, Leena knelt, silent and stoic, and the expression on her face was almost more painful than the hitching sounds coming out of Claudia. In all the time they’d known each other, Myka had never seen Leena look anything less than flawlessly composed. Even when she was upset (which, in itself, was rare enough to warrant concern), she still held herself straight and calm, a pillar of steady strength even when she herself was shaken. Now, though, she looked as though the world had been ripped away from her, and it was like a blade to Myka’s heart to see her – so often so composed – suddenly so reduced. And, though she knew that Pete was right, though she understood that her own issues were secondary here, that her guilt didn’t matter, she couldn’t shake the voices in her head, screaming once again that it was her fault, all of it, that she was to blame for this. Her failure had put that look on Leena’s face.

“How’s she doing?” Pete asked, refusing to get sucked into the tumult of heartbreak he was so obviously feeling.

For a second or two, all Leena could do was shake her head; when she finally did summon strength enough to speak, it was in a voice choked by pain. “I don’t know,” she managed, and the guilt-stricken torment on her face must have matched Myka’s perfectly because Pete was by her side then, telling her over and over again, just as he’d told Myka, that it wasn’t her fault.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Helena added from behind Myka. “Accidents happen. The question to ask here is not _‘who can we blame for this tragedy?’_ , but _‘what can we do to make her suffering less?’_.”

Not waiting for the impact of her words to strike her companions, she crossed the room in two graceful steps, moving around Myka and Pete as though they weren’t there and towering over the hunched Leena. She didn’t ignore her, at least not exactly, but she made it clear by her body language that she had no intention of wasting her comfort on those who were capable of finding it within themselves. She was like a bullet carving a pre-ordained path, focused and intent in a way that Myka hadn’t seen in anyone in a very long time.

The thing about the Warehouse and its people was how easy it was to get distracted. They were a family, above and beyond all else, and when one of their number was hurt, they all hurt. It was impossible, sometimes, to attend to one of them without attending to all of the others as well – Myka and her guilt, Leena and her grief, Artie and his anger – and it was really only Pete who ever managed to stave off the emotional detritus for long enough to direct his focus to the thing that really mattered. He always seemed to know, without being told, who needed him most, in a way that Myka knew she herself definitely wasn’t. It was weird, in a good way, to finally have somebody else with that kind of attentive thought, someone who could care for Myka as deeply as she knew that Helena did, who could be concerned for Leena and for Pete, who could have her own thoughts about Artie, but not be so overwhelmed by any one of them as to lose track of what was truly important.

It felt strange, not taking it personally. Helena’s focus wasn’t cold; she wasn’t being calloused or disrespectful in tuning out the rest of them. She was simply doing as she always did, what she did best: the thing that needed to be done. She would, Myka was sure, talk everything through at a later date, deal with Myka and Pete and Leena and Artie and whoever else wanted or needed her attention in any given moment... but right now, she had a task, and that was all that mattered. She would think about the wider picture later, Myka thought. Right now, what she cared about was taking action – no, more than that, taking the _right_ action – playing out the scene in the way it needed to be played, with Claudia at its centre and the rest of them in distant orbit around her.

“Claudia, darling...” she said, placing a steady hand at the back of her neck. The touch seemed to surprise them both, because Claudia flinched and cried, and Helena turned pale; she didn’t turn away from her charge, but her next words were clearly meant for the benefit of the others. “She’s feverish.”

“Of course she is,” Leena mumbled; she wasn’t exactly angry, but the harshness of her tone was worryingly unlike her.

“Is that a thing?” Pete asked, sounding more like himself now that he was dealing with his forte, the world of things he didn’t understand. “Like, is it a concussion-type thing?”

Myka couldn’t remember, which was as frustrating as it was unexpected; there was a corner of her mind that was screaming at her, insisting that she did know this stuff, that she’d had it drilled into her brain for years... and yet, when she tried to harness the information, she found herself drawing panic-laden blanks.

“I dunno,” she mumbled embarrassedly. “Maybe. I... I don’t...”

“It’s not concussion,” Leena said sharply, her tone exactly the same as before.

She made no effort to elucidate, and didn’t look up, and despite herself, Myka felt a flare of hope sputtering like a struggling flame in her chest; she tried to fight it down, but it had already found its spark and could only grow now, clinging to the ghost of a chance that maybe it wasn’t as much her fault as she thought.

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking from Leena to Claudia and back again.

“I mean ‘it’s not concussion’,” Leena repeated; the tension was still there behind her voice, but it was starting to sound tearful now. “She’s not concussed. She’s sick. She’s...”

“What’s the difference?” Pete blurted out, like he really didn’t know, and for a blissful few seconds Myka found that the will to punch some sense into him overpowered even the guilt.

Leena sighed and floated to her feet, leaving Helena with more room to manoeuvre in her quest to offer comfort to the ailing Claudia. Ever the vision of grace even when she was grieving, she looked from Pete to Myka and back again, gauging them (and, no doubt, their auras) in a way that Myka was familiar with; she knew better than to interrupt Leena when she was studying someone, even when that someone was herself, and so didn’t press her to say anything until she was done.

“Her head’s fine,” she explained, at long last, and she seemed to be speaking almost solely at Myka now, like she knew – and maybe she did – that Myka was the one who really needed to hear it. “Her aura is scrambled, yes, but it’s not because of...” She exhaled, frustrated by the need to explain what she was seeing to people who could never see it, and bowed her head to hide her expression. “It’s not concussion,” she said again, sounding tired and defeated. “She isn’t concussed.”

Myka could only stare at her, struggling to reconcile what she was hearing (what she so desperately wanted to believe) with her innate sense of cynicism. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Leena’s powers of second sight – she mostly did, not least of all because the mysterious woman had never been wrong about her – but this was serious, and she really wasn’t sure it would be wise or prudent to place any kind of faith, to say nothing of Claudia’s well-being, in the hands of someone who made judgements based on intangible senses.

Unfortunately, before they had the chance to discuss it any further, Claudia interrupted them with a pained little wail.

“Claudia...” Helena urged, easing her onto her back with phenomenal gentleness. “Darling, it’s all right. We’re here.”

Reflexively, Claudia tried to roll over again, to curl in on herself, but Helena wouldn’t let her. Only ever using the very softest of touches, she helped her to sit up a little, settling herself on the edge of the bed and holding her as best she could given that Claudia kept squirming and trying to get away.

“She’s delirious,” Leena said, and her voice was a near-constant tremor. “And afraid. She doesn’t know where she is.”

“I can see that,” Helena replied, candid but not unkind.

“No...” Leena sighed, sounding uncharacteristically desperate. “You don’t understand. _She doesn’t know where she is_.” She looked to Myka, and then Pete, as though pleading with them to explain, to catch the weight of what she was saying, but all Myka could hear was ‘it’s not concussion’ echoing like a symphony in her head, and she couldn’t bring herself to focus on any new information just then.

Helena shot Leena a glance, studied her thoughtfully, then nodded. “I see,” she said; Myka suspected that it wasn’t true, but Helena clearly had no intention of making another enemy. “Thank you.”

And, with that, she promptly went back to ignoring everyone else in the room.

For a time, Myka did nothing but watch her, wordless and awestruck. There was something almost magical in the way that Helena dealt with Claudia, and she couldn’t quite keep herself from wondering if perhaps this was a glimpse into the soul of Helena Wells the mother. Not the world-renowned creative mastermind, the genius, the purveyor of ideas so far ahead of her time, not the dazzling Warehouse agent with skills that put the rest of them to shame, but the _woman_ , the heart and soul, the nurturer who wanted nothing more than to make an ailing young woman feel better.

Even Claudia, never one to accept any kind of comfort from anyone, was having a hard time sustaining her resistance. She wasn’t settling, no, but her struggles weren’t as aggressive as they had been even just a few moments earlier. There was just something in Helena (for all of Artie’s insistences that she was a cold-blooded murderer with little regard for human life) that invited a companion – and indeed, Myka thought, a spectator – to draw solace simply from her presence, from the shared space and contact, simply from being with her. It was the same inner warmth, Myka supposed, that made her the only one among them whose focus was unshakeably fixed on the one who most needed it, and to hell with everyone else.

Faintly, shuddering, Claudia mumbled Helena’s name – a scarcely audible “HG”, choked out and cut free from a body wracked with tremors – and Myka watched as Helena’s eyes grew dark and wet once more, the sudden emotion too much for her classical stoicism to fight. It hurt Myka too, the sight and the sound of it, Claudia’s bone-deep suffering and Helena’s too-raw empathy, and she suddenly caught herself biting down on something that felt suspiciously like a sob.

And she wasn’t the only one, either. Where he stood, Pete was clenching his jaw so tightly that it was a miracle he hadn’t broken it, and Leena looked as though she would burst into tears at any moment. All of a sudden, they were – all three of them – entranced, overcome, unable to speak or move or even take their eyes off Helena and her young charge, their shared emotion soundless but somehow overpowering everything.

Most telling of all, though, was the way that even Artie, when he stormed his way into the room a few short minutes later, with heavy-weighted reprimands already on his lips, lapsed into sudden inexplicable silence at the sight of them.

There was no outburst. No _“What’s she doing?”_ , no _“Get that monster away from my protégé!”_. There was nothing at all, not even so much as a word. He stopped in his tracks, frozen like the rest of them, reverent if grudging, and watched without comment as Helena’s fingertips traced feather-light patterns across the spasm-tight planes of Claudia’s back, as Claudia cried and whined and slowly – fraction by excruciating fraction – made the transition from struggling resistance to quiet acceptance, finally letting herself be cradled in Helena’s arms with barely a whimper, and shaking both of their bodies with the force of her feverish shivers.

When he finally did force himself to shatter the moment by announcing his presence, Artie’s voice was peculiarly low, almost reverent. “Vanessa’s stuck in Australia,” he said, earning a symphony of _‘huh?’_ from everyone in the vicinity. “Apparently there’s been a ‘sheep-related Regent emergency’. Don’t ask.”

“Say _what_?” Pete asked, as though there was a hidden prompt card somewhere telling him precisely the wrong thing to say.

“That sounds like asking!” Artie barked, then cast him aside like an irritating fly with a flourishing flail of his arms. “As I was saying, she’ll get here if she can, but...” He trailed off, the swatting gesture reshaping itself of its own accord into something more hopeless, and he bypassed Helena with his usual predictability and looked worriedly at Leena. “How is she?”

“Very sick,” Leena answered, sounding thoroughly miserable. Then, apparently sensing that the conversation would go back to the critical point, “But not concussed.”

Artie scowled at her, disdainfully suspicious (and, no doubt, a little annoyed by the fact that she’d pre-empted his pointed demand before he’d had a chance to make it). “Are you sure?”

Leena sighed, but clearly didn’t have the energy to explain herself for the third, fourth, or five hundredth time. “I’m sure,” she said. “Artie, she’s—”

“Thank you.” Waving at her in much the same way he’d dismissed Pete, Artie turned to glare at Myka. Evidently, she wasn’t safe yet. “What else happened over there?” he demanded, and his voice was a razor.

“Nothing!” she cried, automatically hyper-defensive in spite of the little guilt-touched voice crying out in the back of her mind, the part of her that was still so certain there had to be something else, something that she hadn’t thought of, some other way that this really was her fault. She couldn’t listen to that voice now, couldn’t let it express itself in a place where Artie or the others might hear it too, wouldn’t let them see her doubt, refused to let them doubt her as well. “Look, Artie,” she went on, dogged in following her chosen path, even as she knew it wasn’t the true one. “She’s not Pete. She doesn’t touch things she’s not supposed to, or play with all the exhibits just because they’re there. She was great. She didn’t do anything, and the only reason she even hit her head in the first place was because she’s skittish.”

“Low blow,” Pete muttered, on his own tangent now. “I so do not touch _all_ the exhibits.”

Myka ignored him. “She’s a good apprentice, Artie. She didn’t do anything wrong. And... and neither did I. I swear.”

Pete huffed a breath, apparently sensing that playing the goofball wouldn’t diffuse this particular bomb, and turned his attention grudgingly onto Artie. “Artie, bro. Chillax, will ya? She’s probably just picked up some funky British-type virus or something. That’s why they got that weird health service thing over there, right? ’Cause they get sick all the time?” Myka bit her tongue to keep from correcting him. “C’mon, dude. She’s just sick. Leena said so. Right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, not that Leena seemed inclined to give him one anyway. “So – hey, hey, hey! – she probably just caught something. And that’s not Myka’s fault. And that means you guys can quit fighting about this, and move on.”

He didn’t sound convinced, though, and Myka could tell he was only saying it at all to try and keep the fighting from starting up again; the mistrust ghosting into his voice sent another lance of guilt blazing a trail through her. Pete was, after all, the one who had found Claudia, the one who had been so visibly worried when he’d brought her home, so uncharacteristically angry at them for all the arguing. He was the one who probably knew what was happening better than anyone else – except maybe Leena, though Myka doubted that even she was quite so sure as she claimed to be – and, if he was doubting his own words, if he didn’t even truly believe himself, what chance did he have of convincing Artie?

“I’m not saying it’s her fault...” Artie insisted, in a tone of voice that made it perfectly clear that he was saying exactly that. “I’m just trying to find out whether there are any more crucial pieces of information about my apprentice that she’s left out.”

Myka had had just about enough. “Artie, for God’s sake—”

“Oh, for the love of...” Though he must have known by now that his hopes of keeping the peace were doomed to disappointment, Pete kept trying just the same, spreading his arms wide. “What’s it gonna take, huh? You guys have got to—”

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this—”

“He won’t stop until he’s found a way to pin it on—”

“That’s not true! You know me better than—”

“ _Guys_!” Pete roared, giving up on diplomacy and raising his voice loud enough to drown them both out. “That’s enough! Jeez. We got a sick kid in the room, remember? If you’re not gonna knock it off, how ’bout you take it outside?”

“On the contrary,” Helena said, her usual composure doing nothing to smooth over her obvious upset. “Perhaps _we_ should ‘take it outside’ instead.” She touched Claudia’s face, a moment of tenderness in the maelstrom that the room had become. “Miss Donovan informs me that she’s feeling rather nauseous, so perhaps it would serve us all for the best if she and I retired to the restroom for the time being, and left you to your...” She sighed, sounding utterly exhausted. “...‘discussion’.”

“Should you be moving her?” Leena fretted, wringing her hands and looking about as miserable as Helena. “Shouldn’t she just stay here? Should we even be—”

“She’ll be just fine, darling,” Helena assured her, then sighed. “Or, perhaps I should say, I expect she’ll be closer to it there than she will be in here.”

“I...” Leena glanced around, eyeing Artie and Myka and Pete and realising that she probably couldn’t argue that point, much as she clearly wanted to. She still looked worried, and her eyes were wet as they fell back on Claudia and stayed there. “Can I help?”

Helena smiled, sympathy for her concern mingling with a refusal to expend any more energy than she absolutely had to on anyone who wasn’t her patient. “I imagine we could all benefit from the healing properties of a good cup of tea.”

For about half a second, Leena looked almost a little offended by that; the moment passed quickly, though, and she mustered an agreeable smile, nodding with all the amicable lightness that was her trademark. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She let her gaze linger for a heartbeat or two, pain shot through every line on her face as Claudia whimpered and trembled, then, unable to endure it a moment longer, spun on her heel in a an arc so graceful it could just as easily have come from Helena herself, and left.

Helena wasn’t far behind, guiding as much as supporting the weak-kneed Claudia across the threshold and out into the corridor beyond, and Pete marked their exit in typical style by lamenting with melodramatic gestures how Claudia had refused to stand up when _he_ had been the one asking.

For her part, Myka didn’t wait more than a handful of seconds after they were gone before rounding back on Artie as though they hadn’t been interrupted at all, willing the anger to outrun the guilt before it could take her down again. “Artie, nothing happened over there! It’s not fair that you’re—”

“Isn’t it?” he threw back, and the anger cowered and whimpered as the guilt flared up anew. “Are you telling me that you weren’t even the teeniest tiniest little bit distracted out there? That your thoughts weren’t on...” He shuddered at the thought, but seemed determined not to skirt the issue this time; with Claudia and Helena both gone, there was no barrier, and Myka knew that she wouldn’t be able to escape the words this time. “... _other things_ , when they should have been on your job?”

Myka opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“C’mon, Artie...” Pete said; he sounded nervous, like he didn’t want to get sucked into this at all, but his code of honour insisted that he step up and defend his partner for the hundredth time. “It’s _Myka_ , man. She doesn’t even know the meaning of ‘distracted’.”

“I’m not asking you,” Artie said, rather more harshly than Pete deserved. “I’m asking her.”

“Okay!” she yelled, throwing up her hands. “Okay, fine! Yes. I was distracted. I was. But we both know that if you’d picked the right agent to go on that mission in the first place, instead of making up some imaginary artefact in Boston just to make some kind of point, none of this would have happened at all. Claudia should never have gone to London, and you know it.”

“It’s not your job to decide who goes where!” he reminded her; he wasn’t raising his voice any more, and Myka could tell it was because he knew he didn’t have to. “It’s mine. Your job is to keep your head in the game.”

He didn’t add, _“...and, in that, you failed spectacularly”_ , but he didn’t need to do that either. They could both hear it. And, for all that he could be phenomenally vindictive when he wanted to be, he was not flat-out cruel, and it would have taken a blind man by this point not to see that Myka had gotten the message. Even at his most bull-headed Artie wasn’t one to belabour a point just out of spite. It was enough that he’d made it, and she’d heard it.

Besides, he wasn’t saying anything more or less than what her guilty conscience already had, countless times since they’d got back. And, ultimately, he was right. Of course she knew that. And... well, maybe that was why she was fighting so hard, resisting his accusations and throwing her own right back at him. Because he was right, and she knew it, and it hurt. The facts were just as he’d said them: whatever she might have thought or felt about his decision, she’d had a job to do, a responsibility to uphold, and she had consistently failed (or else simply refused) to concentrate on doing that, instead deferring over and over again to her righteous indignation and indulgent fantasies about how much better everything in the universe would have been if it had been Helena there instead of Claudia.

The fact was, whatever issue Myka had with Artie just then, he was right about this. Her head hadn’t been in the game. She’d been distracted and unfocused, negligent in the worst possible way. Maybe Artie had screwed up in not sending Helena, but Myka had screwed up far worse, and the one suffering for it was the one person – the only one in this whole mess – who didn’t deserve to suffer at all.


	9. Chapter 9

In every possible sense of the word, Claudia felt sick.

The world was a blur, a fog-thick swirl of colours turned grey, up gone down and left gone right, and she couldn’t tell one side of it from another. It all looked the same, all felt the same, all twisted-up and backwards and wrong, so wrong, everything all so wrong, and it hurt too much to try and see what was real and right.

The pitching of the room was matched almost perfectly by the churning in her stomach, the tightening of her muscles, the way her vision dimmed and faded. She herself was every bit as out of sync as the world was, all twisted up and thrown about, colours all faded in the same way, and the only difference between them was that the world was not sentient enough to feel sick from it.

But she wasn’t alone. That much she knew, even as she couldn’t quite figure out why. There was a body, pressed up against her own, cool in all the places she was too hot, fingertips at her temples, a voice in her ear, and the inexplicable softness of it all almost made her want to cry until her heart stopped beating, until the world stopped churning, until it all stopped and she didn’t have to endure it any more.

_HG_. She knew it, even as she also knew it was impossible. HG Wells wasn’t a woman, and even if he(/she/it) was, he (or she or it or whatever) had been dead for like a zillion years. (Longer even than Artie had been alive, some little corner of her remarked laughingly, and she knew it was funny but she couldn’t remember why). Dead writers, even ones that didn’t have a specific gender identity, didn’t just show up to hug people when they were feeling sick. That wasn’t the way things worked.

Her rational mind understood that, knew that she was just hiding herself away like she always did, locking herself up in her self-created haven where impossible things were real, wrapping up her deluded mind in the embrace of imaginary friends because they were the only source of comfort she had, the only thing in the whole world that could not be taken away from her.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten sick since Joshua’s death, but she couldn’t help wondering if maybe it was the first time since she’d been here. But then, she wasn’t exactly sure where ‘here’ was – the Warehouse, the institution, either or both or neither. She did not know. She couldn’t remember, didn’t know where she was, where this was, where her mind was, and so she couldn’t know whether it was the first time she’d gotten sick here or not. She didn’t know anything. Wherever she was, whatever shape her screwed-up life had taken in the time since her brother died, she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything at all, except that HG’s embrace was warm and her arms were solid, and she wanted her to be real.

She was confused, and the confusion made her scared. The world around her – discordant and remote – was telling her things that could not be true, and her mind was screaming that it was as impossible as it was familiar, even as her heart screamed just as loudly that it didn’t care what was true or possible or made-up, that it didn’t care about anything at all, that all it wanted was to feel safe.

Besides, trying to think about it just made her feel worse, the nausea bearing down heavy like an iron weight in the pit of her stomach, weighted and solid, tiny spasms rippling out and out and out until she was sure that she would die from the effort of holding it all down.

Spectral or not, HG seemed to understand how she was feeling, the pressure and the sickness, the churning inside her and the blurry-edged haze that the world had become. “Claudia,” she was murmuring, beautifully strong hands now at her back, kneading at the tension there. “It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.”

It wasn’t, though. Claudia thought for certain that it would never be all right again, that the very concept of ‘all right’ would be eradicated completely before she ever remembered how it felt. She felt sick. She felt so very sick, and so very scared.

And still HG understood. Still she murmured words of empathy and sympathy, made hollow promises that it was all right, that everything was all right, that Claudia would be all right. She must have known that Claudia didn’t believe her – that she _couldn’t_ believe her – but she did it anyway, repeating it again and again until the words were all she could hear. And it wasn’t because she thought she could help, but because she wished that she could. She wanted so desperately to ease Claudia’s suffering, and the parts of Claudia that were thankful were suddenly violently overpowered by the parts that hated the way that she couldn’t let that happen, that she wasn’t good enough to draw the comfort that she needed, the comfort that HG needed to give.

It was insanity, the heat of fever bringing out the worst parts of a mind already unhinged. The whispering of ghosts, the phantoms of things that didn’t exist, spectral illusions... and they couldn’t possibly be anything other than the delusory ravings of a girl gone mad, but she ached with every part of her – even the parts that were already aching, shot through with sweat and sickness – to find a way of accepting it, a way of making it real.

She heard herself pleading (stifled prayers, gagged by fear and bile) for it all to stop, and she didn’t know, even as she cried and begged for it, whether it was the delusions that she wanted to end, or the reality they was protecting her from. She wanted this place to be real, so much so that she could almost taste the sweat on HG’s skin as surely as she could feel it beading on her own... but, at the same time, she wanted so much just to be free from the pain of wanting it. It hurt to be so close to a thing so bright, so impossible, and know – even as she fought that knowledge – that it could never truly be. It hurt to know that the only kind of comfort left to her, the only haven she had, was one born from her own sick mind.

Everything hurt. Her body, her mind. Maybe even her soul, if she even had one. It all hurt, and all she could do was wish that it didn’t.

And then, it wasn’t just them, it wasn’t just HG holding her and telling her she would be all right, it wasn’t just them in twisted imaginary isolation. Suddenly there was second voice, shimmering right at the edge of her consciousness, talking about tea and asking if she needed anything.

_Leena_ , her mind informed her. Doing what she’d been asked to do, making herself useful and helpful in a way that was so much more tangible than HG and her impossible promises, and Claudia wondered briefly if the kind of medication she needed was the same kind that Leena was offering.

Probably not, she decided; imaginary friends weren’t usually prone to offer the thing that would make them disappear.

HG answered on her behalf anyway, voice low and polite, sweet but steady as she asked for a glass of water. It was the last thing in the world that Claudia wanted, and she wondered whether HG was asking for one because she truly thought it would help, or just because she felt like she should probably ask for something.

There was silence for a brief while, the pressure churning anew within her. Then, so very quietly, “Why are you doing this?”

The question must have been meant for HG, because she laughed, the vibration thrumming against Claudia’s chest and sharpening the sugar-slick taste of nausea. “Doing what, dear?”

“This.” A flurry of motion, just out of her vision, probably a gesture of some description, lost to the swirling grey of the world turned fog. “All of this. With her. Why are you doing it?”

HG hummed, but it was not a laugh this time. “Caring for her, you mean?” she asked lightly, and the response must have been affirmative because she breathed a sorrowful little sigh a moment or two later. “Because I _do_ care. Claudia has been kind to me, and I care a great deal for her.” She shifted a little, and her voice dropped low, rich with something that sounded like regret. “...and because there is nothing in this world, or any other, that is more unjust than a child in pain.”

“She’s not a child.” Leena’s voice was rough and cold, tainted by something that hurt Claudia’s head, but it wasn’t really harsh.

“She’s far younger than her years...”

Claudia thought that maybe she should be angry with them for talking about her as though she was not there to speak for herself, but she couldn’t think straight enough to try and voice the indignation she was so sure she should be feeling, and she didn’t have the time anyway, because HG was still talking at Leena and neither of them seemed to care very much what she thought anyway.

“...surely you, with your unique gifts, must be aware of that.”

When Leena spoke again, the confusing roughness had shifted; she did sound angry, now, really and truly, and it chilled Claudia’s already shaking bones. “She’s _not_ a child.”

HG shrugged. Claudia knew that she did because she felt it right through her body, like the subtle rocking of a boat on an ocean that was mostly calm but threatened something dangerous. She felt seasick now, too, and it added to all the other sicknesses she was feeling, painting them green and blue.

“As you say,” HG murmured peaceably. “But child or not, she is in pain. And that should be reason enough to care for her.”

“It should be...” Leena echoed; the anger had abated somewhat, but she still sounded dubious.

The thing that hummed and crackled between them wasn’t exactly tension, but it wasn’t really _not_ tension either. It was weird, and made Claudia feel uncomfortable in a way that even the fever wasn’t, itching underneath her skin and making her body catch fire. She liked HG, and she liked Leena, and they both liked her... but now they were kind of (but not exactly) fighting, too, just like everyone else was. Everything she knew and loved was cracking apart, tearing itself to pieces from the seams, and she couldn’t understand why it was all so difficult, why they couldn’t get along. She liked all of them, and they all liked her... so why couldn’t they just feel the same about each other?

She made a little noise, as far back in her throat as she could manage without retching, and clung to HG’s sleeve like it was a lifeline, like the ocean had gotten stormy and her body was the only thing keeping her from falling off the boat and drowning. HG leaned in, rubbing her back and making small soothing sounds close to her ear, Leena apparently forgotten.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with modern curatives...” she admitted, regret touched by the faintest shimmer of curiosity.

Claudia opened her mouth, the names of half a dozen drugs already on her tongue, even as she knew they weren’t the type that HG was talking about. But it wasn’t the fever that she wanted cured; she could endure that. She could be brave, be strong and tough and grown-up, just like Joshua had always told her to be. She could handle being sick... but the madness? The splitness of her psyche? The feeling that she wasn’t in the right place, even as her heart and soul cried out that they felt they were home? That, she could not survive.

She didn’t want to feel like that, so much confusion and conflict. She wanted to close her eyes and not wonder where she was, who she was, what she was, whether or not anything she saw or felt or thought was real. She wanted to _know_. Even if that meant that it wasn’t, even if it meant she’d have to leave it – leave these people, this home, the world she loved – at least she would know. Really and truly, she’d know, and that was what she wanted, more than anything. She wanted to know what was and wasn’t real, to feel it and believe it all through her bones, and she didn’t even care that it would be because she was drugged to hell and back. If the drugs could make it happen, if they could bring her out of this place forged in fighting and false hope, she would take them a thousand times without a second’s hesitation.

But she wouldn’t find them here, and she knew that. She would only find compassion, sanctuary, the kind of perfection that could only exist in a world that wasn’t real, and hope that HG could shield her from the all fighting for long enough to let her believe it was. She wouldn’t find the kind of release she needed, and she knew that, when HG asked about medication, she didn’t mean what Claudia wished she would mean.

“Rest, mainly,” Leena said, answering HG, a potent reinforcement of the fact; these people cared about her too much to let her be free of them.

“The marvels of modern medicine,” HG remarked wryly. “To think, how far the world has come in this past century...”

A low chuckle from Leena, then, though it was more polite than sincere. “I can find her some Tylenol, if that would dazzle you?”

HG didn’t have the chance to respond to that, because Claudia had burst out laughing on her behalf. It was a laugh edged with mania, borne of madness, but she didn’t care. _Tylenol!_ There were so many drugs – real drugs, actual, useful drugs – that she did need, that she needed and wanted for so many reasons... and these people were offering her some lame over-the-counter painkiller! Like it would do anything at all for any part of what was ailing her! Like the pain was any part of what was really wrong with her! It was absurd!

The laughter was rough, spluttering, dangerous, and it was enough to light the spark in her, the shaking of her shoulders making the rest of her body tighten and jerk. And then it was over, her mind’s struggles cast aside in deference to her body’s as the mania cut itself off with the kind of violence that screamed of what was about to happen in the heartbeat before it did, and there was a distant part of her mind that hoped HG got the message, but most of her was just too busy trying to stay alive to really care.

Her stomach clenched, muscles spasming around nothing for a nanosecond that lasted forever, and then she heaved.

Apparently HG did get the message, because she was lightning-quick, moving with a kind of automatic reflex that could only have come from the twin gifts of foresight and experience. Claudia, her guts spilled quite literally, driven by shame and pain to curl in on herself, to hide behind her own twisted muscles even as they rebelled all the more violently for the effort of trying to keep them at bay, found herself eased onto her knees, guided and held up, supported with unimaginable gentleness by the warmth and strength, the practiced familiarity of hands that knew their task well and would not shy away from it.

“It’s all right, Claudia,” HG was murmuring, close to her ear. Nothing else, just _“it’s all right”_ , over and over again, just like before, and Claudia didn’t want to hear it now any more than she had then, the words tearing at the sweat-hot surface of her skin and ripping long bloody gashes through every part of her.

She didn’t want it to be all right. She didn’t want anything to be all right. She wanted to be away from this, away from the world that was so kind to her. She wanted to be somewhere that could help her, somewhere that could pump her full of the kind of drugs that she needed, the kind that made her sick just like this but for all the right reasons, the kind that tried to drive the madness from her, by force if they had to.

There was no kindness in the real world, only violence. Violence like this, the tumult in her stomach, the tearing in her throat, the taste in her mouth. All of them, all together, spasms and screaming and raw brutality, and she would take it, take a lifetime of it if she had to, if only it would bring with it a release from her mind.

But it didn’t, and that was why it felt so awful. Because this sickness wouldn’t bring anything with it. There would be no release at the end of this, no reprieve or relief. It was just spasm after spasm, and all she felt when each one passed was sicker and sicker, her guts tightening around themselves, lungs screaming in the half-second before it all started up again, and it was all she had to look forward to – more of the same, until her body had no more to give, and her mind would still be just as twisted as it ever was. It was senseless, pointless, and it hurt.

The madness was still in her, and it would still be there too when this was over. For all that her body was trying to purge from itself, for all it was trying to shake the fever and the sweat from within her, she knew that the world would still be wrong when it was done. She would still be lost and crazy, still be drowning in her own psychosis, and this was the wrong kind of sickness to end it. All this would make her was worse.

And HG didn’t understand. For all that she understood the physical symptoms, the sickness and its effects, she couldn’t understand how Claudia was feeling, how frightened and broken, how desperate for the drugs that would make her sick just like this, only so, so different. She couldn’t possibly understand that, that Claudia would happily take this if only it would have a result worth seeing, if only it would purge her mind as well as her body, if only it would take the contents of her head away too as it drained her stomach. It would be worth all of this for just a moment of that... but there would be no moment, and HG didn’t understand that when the spasms stopped, the pain wouldn’t.

If she did understand, Claudia knew, she wouldn’t be doing what she was doing. She wouldn’t still be telling her that it was “all right”, wouldn’t still be rubbing circles on her back, like that would somehow make it all go away, wouldn’t be holding her and guiding her and taking care of her like she had any idea what was making her feel so terrible. She was trying so hard, so caring and compassionate, and it was all for nothing.

“Stop,” she heard herself crying between spasms, gasping little whimpers that barely made it out of her throat before they were chased away. She didn’t know if she was talking to the futile sickness or to HG’s kindness. “Please, stop. Please.”

“Hush, darling...” HG urged, voice raw with compassion and something indecipherable. “This will pass in a moment.”

Too weak to struggle, too sick to explain why that didn’t matter, Claudia did hush. Of course it didn’t help. Quite the opposite, in fact; with nothing else to focus on, no distraction to cling to, she was lost to the sensation, the unpleasantness. She drowned in the bitterness at the back of her mouth, the taste and the tumult and the tearing, the heat soaking through her body, the way that she couldn’t stop shaking. It felt so much like the drugs she wanted, coating her stomach and filling her throat with the taste of chalky acid, crawling within her and making her sick, but with none of the effects that she needed so badly.

She was still here. There was no dimming of this place, no glimmer of clarity that made all of the nausea worthwhile, nothing to tether her to the world that was real or break her free from the haven that was not. Why was she still here?

Just like HG said it would, the moment did pass. The physical moment, anyway, if not the confusion... but at least it was something. Her shaking fingers brushed porcelain and she braced herself against its polished contours, gasping for breath, willing the pressure on her lungs to ease, even as the pressure on her mind did not.

Patient, forever patient, HG waited until she had mostly recovered herself, until the agonised panting faded out into something that must have sounded almost like normal human breathing, and only then did she decide to speak again.

“There, there, darling. Are you feeling better now?”

Claudia leaned forward until her forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, and willed it to cool her sweat-pricked skin. She wanted to answer the question honestly, to tell HG that she felt worse, that she couldn’t feel better when she was still here and still crazy, but that would just make HG sad, and she didn’t want that. HG may have been a delusion, but she wanted to help. She tried so hard, and Claudia would not let her feel like her efforts were in vain just because it wasn’t possible.

So instead, she just closed her eyes, swallowed thickly, and said, “I hate everything.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Leena said from somewhere behind her. It sounded like she was trying to chastise her, to be rational and mature like she usually was, but the words came out stuttered and broken, like she was feeling sick now too, and the sound of it made Claudia cry.

“Excuse me,” HG interrupted carefully, before Leena could cause any more unintentional damage with her worry. “Perhaps you could fetch that glass of water now? And possibly a change of clothing for the poor child?”

“She’s not a child!” Leena cried again. “And I’m not your...” She trailed off, seeming to sense that this was not the time, and sighed, seemingly to herself. “Never mind,” she said instead. “Of course. Water, and a change of clothes. And some more tea for you, maybe?”

For all the irony in it, the gesture was mostly sincere, a peace offering of sorts, and HG could tell. “As much as I appreciate the offer,” she said, similarly genuine, “I wouldn’t deign to put you out of your way.”

If there was any response to that, Claudia didn’t hear it. In fact, for a long while, she didn’t hear anything at all beyond the pulsing of blood through her veins and the pounding of her heart as it struggled to cope. She could feel the tender pressure of HG’s hands, still at her back, friction hot against the soaked fabric of her shirt, could sense the warmth of her body, the curve of hips and breasts pushing against her side as she leaned over her, the tickling of her hair across the exposed nape of her neck, knew that under normal circumstances she would probably be feeling inappropriate things about this kind of contact with someone like HG, but that was the last thing she was capable of feeling right then.

When she was finally able to hear again, probably some minutes later, it wasn’t HG’s voice that rang in her head, but her own, still thick with the revenant of her stomach’s rebellion, weak and pitiful as an infant, and she felt too awful to even care how pathetic she sounded.

“I don’t ever, _ever_ want to do that again...”

“Oh, sweetheart,” HG sighed, and her voice carried all the misery that Claudia was feeling. “I know, it’s not pleasant.”

“You don’t—” Claudia swallowed, sharp and compulsive, as her guts threatened a resurgence, forced it down because she knew it wouldn’t help. “You don’t get it, HG...”

HG chuckled, in a way that said she was humouring her. “Darling, you underestimate me. I’m intimately acquainted with conditions such as yours, the effects that a fever can have upon the body... and the mind.” Her hands stilled for a moment, and Claudia’s back twitched with a kind of forceful protest that surprised them both. “Oh, Claudia. I know how lost you must be feeling, and how frightened.”

“Then make it stop!” Claudia begged. “Please, please, please. I don’t... I don’t wanna go back there, but it won’t stop.”

“I can’t.” HG sounded positively tortured as she drew her hands away from Claudia’s back and brought them up to frame her face. “I would if I could, darling. You have to believe that. But there are things that are beyond my power, and I cannot take away your suffering simply because I wish it to be so. I can’t make you better by the power of my will, any more than I could have made Christina...” She trailed off, and her hands were possessive and tender at the same time, shaping the contours of Claudia’s face with her fingertips. “I can’t make it stop, Claudia. I am so, so sorry.” She really was; Claudia could feel the remorse radiating out from every pore. “But I can be here, and I can make sure you are not alone. For all that I can’t do, Claudia, I can do that.”

“Please,” Claudia whimpered. “HG, please...”

For better or worse, HG was spared the need to respond by a quietly decisive knock on the bathroom door. “Helena?”

“Why, Myka,” HG said, sad but strong. “By all means, do come in.”

“It’s all right,” Myka’s voice said, stifled a bit by the creak of the door. “I’m alone. Leena said that you wanted these...”

She must have been holding something, because, though Claudia couldn’t see, she could hear the telltale shuffling of movement, and felt HG leave her side for a moment or two. She didn’t ask, partly because she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth, but also because she really did not care. She didn’t care what Leena had said, or what Myka had brought, or what HG was doing; she just wanted to feel like the world made sense. She just wanted the churning in her stomach to lend itself to the good kind of sickness, and the churning in her mind to go away entirely. What good could Myka or Leena or their gifts do about that?

“Such astonishing efficiency,” HG remarked, and even Claudia could tell that she was impressed. “Over here, please.”

There was another brief flurry of motion at the very edge of Claudia’s grey-blurred eye, and then another body was crouched beside her, on the opposite side to HG. It was Myka, she knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She wanted to, wanted to remember how it felt to be glad that Myka was there, wanted to tap into the parts of her that thought of Myka as a kind of mentor, the thing she wanted to grow up to be. She wanted to be happy to see Myka, or at least to know that she was there... but all she could feel was sick and sad and scared, and she wasn’t sure she would ever remember how to feel happy about anything again.

“Hey, Claud...” A second pair of hands, Myka’s, followed the trail laid by HG’s fingertips across her sweat-slick features, gentle and tender, and Claudia felt the spark between the two of them – oblivious to her presence for a moment – when their hands met. “How’re you feeling?”

Claudia whined, but didn’t answer. Not that she needed to, as it went down; HG was perfectly content to answer on her behalf. “She’s been quite ill,” she said, voice rough with regret, like it was her fault, like she had somehow failed to take adequate care of her just because Claudia couldn’t control herself. “But she is, of course, quite the trouper. A brave little soul indeed.”

“Oh,” Myka said, then leaned in so close that Claudia could actually make out her features through the haze. “Oh, Claud... it’s all right...”

Claudia really, really wished people would stop telling her that, making out like they could somehow make her okay just by telling her that she would be, and then making her feel like it was her fault when their positive thinking didn’t pay off. She wasn’t all right, she wasn’t going to be all right. She was sick; more than that, though, she was crazy, and that wasn’t going to change just because Myka and HG and whoever the hell else were telling her that she was all right.

She leaned in, willing herself to draw strength from the backs of Myka’s fingers, the fronts of HG’s, the sweetness shimmering between them. “I don’t want to feel like this any more,” she whispered, like it was a precious secret. “I don’t want to be crazy.”

Myka stiffened, and there was a corner of Claudia’s mind that realised she’d known she would do that. “You’re not crazy, Claud,” she said, and her voice shook with conviction.

“Claudia,” HG interjected, and Claudia felt the added pressure of her fingertips pressing down on Myka’s where she still cradled her face. “Darling. You should drink some water.”

Just the thought of it was enough to make Claudia feel completely sick again, and her stomach lurched and gurgled. “No,” she said fervently. “I don’t want to drink anything.”

“Darling,” HG said, as gently as she could while still using that weird parental tone that make it clear she wasn’t going to be argued with no matter what Claudia wanted. “Darling, I know you’re still feeling unwell. But you...” She sighed again, heavy and sad. “You’ve been terribly sick, darling, and you need to stay hydrated.”

Before she could argue again, Claudia felt the press of cool glass against her cracked lips, the liquid trickle of water, and it was so sweet and so perfect that she immediately lost the will to fight it anyway. At HG’s behest, she sipped slowly, relishing the ice-cold liquid as it slithered down her throat, and then instantly hating it as it splashed into her stomach. Pleasure turned sweat-slick with nausea in less than a second, and she groaned.

It was only by force of will, the desperate need to not look like a dumb punk who couldn’t control herself in front of Myka, even if she couldn’t go back in time and stop it happening in front of HG, that she kept herself from bringing the water back up in another explosive display. Suddenly angry (at herself, at the way she was feeling, at the water for making her feel that way, at everything), she shoved the glass away, needlessly violent, making incomprehensible noises and wishing that she had enough strength left to glare.

“Very well, darling,” HG sighed, and her disappointment was almost more awful than throwing up would have been. “I’m sure that’s enough, then...”

“Artie wants to know if we should take her to a hospital,” Myka said; though her voice was nothing but business, the way that her fingers were trailing through Claudia’s hair was quite the opposite, and Claudia hated the way she took the comfort those touches offered, how readily she let herself believe that the compassion, the sense of home, was real, how easily she could still lose herself to the thrall of this world and its people.

“I don’t know,” HG replied honestly. “I’m hardly the leading authority on how sickness is to be treated in this glorious new era. If Leena’s wisdom is to believed, the answer is ‘rest’... but that is frankly no different to how things were done in my day.” She exhaled again, and there was a cutting bitterness in her. “I refuse to believe that no better treatment than _that_ has evolved over more than a century, Myka. I will not accept that sitting her and singing a lullaby is the only remedy we can afford.”

“Well, some things are still outside the reach of human knowledge.” Myka’s voice was tender, but Claudia knew that it was not meant for her. “It’s just the way it is.”

“It’s unacceptable,” HG said. She sounded furious, and Claudia shrank away from them both. “It is unacceptable that a chil— that a _young woman_ suffer like this with no cure. It’s been over a century, Myka! It is simply unacceptable!”

“Yes,” Myka replied. “It is unacceptable, and it isn’t fair. But it is what it is, and all we can do is the best that we can.”

Apparently sensing that waiting for a reply from HG would only drag them all further down than they already were, she turned her attention back to Claudia. Claudia, not wanting any attention at all, recoiled, flinching back and hiding behind her hair, like a child clinging to the delusion of _they can’t see me if I can’t see them_. Myka, with a tenderness that was closer to the surface than Claudia could ever remember seeing in her before, pushed the hair back from her face, refusing to let her hide.

“Claud,” she said again. “You’ve got to trust me on this. You’re not crazy. I know it feels like you are, but you’re not.”

“You don’t get it!” Claudia cried brokenly, shoulders shaking. “Nothing makes sense. Nothing makes sense, Myka, and nothing’s real, and you can’t... you can’t just pretend like you know how that feels. You can’t pretend like this place is real, like you’re real, like it’s okay for me to feel like I’m really here when I’m not, because I can’t be, because ‘here’ doesn’t exist. You can’t just pretend like it’s... like I’m...” She choked on a sob, then another. “You can’t pretend like I _deserve_ to be here.”

“Oh God...” Myka sounded close to tears. “Claud...”

“Myka...” HG warned in the heartbeat before Myka, overpowered by her emotions, pulled Claudia into a forceful hug. “I would advise against making such sudden motions so soon—”

The warning was valid, and Claudia’s stomach was quick to confirm it, loudly and violently, a quarter of a second later.

Myka freaked out. Claudia was in no position to really do anything about it, or even really see what was going on, but she knew by the force that she used to push her away, rearing back and lurching to her feet with enough speed to make Claudia’s queasiness even worse than it already was. She could hear her in the background, making horrified little noises, and the sounds set a brutal backbeat to a terrible moment.

Naturally, and for the second time, HG took over without hesitation, guiding Claudia away from Myka and the middle of the room, and easing her through the spasms and the shame and the awfulness just as she had before. And there they were again, drowning out Myka’s mumbling, the same pointless placations murmured again and again in her ear, and for a few lung-shattering moments it was all that she could hear, overpowering even the pounding of blood in her ears and the scream of her throat as she retched. It was worse than awful, maybe even worse than last time, the physicality of it all driving her almost unconscious... until finally, after a moment that lasted a lifetime, the cavalcade stopped once more, and the sound of Myka’s hitching panic consumed even HG’s feints at offering comfort.

“I’m going to...” Myka swallowed; Claudia didn’t need to be able to see her to guess that she was fighting down her own sympathetic gag reflex, and she hated herself even more than she already did to know that she’d made Myka feel so bad as well. “...I’m going to go and tell Artie to call the hospital. You... you’ve got this under control, HG, right? Great.”

“Myka!” HG’s voice was raw with urgency and weight, and Claudia buried her face in her shoulder; she didn’t like the sound of HG’s voice, so sharp and pitchy, any more than the sensation, and the two combined to taste so much like conflict. “Myka, your presence here would be better for her than—”

“It’s fine,” Myka echoed, hoarse and clearly still very much freaked. “You’ve got this under control, right?” Claudia glanced up from the shelter of HG’s shirt, just in time to see Myka turn her fear-stricken gaze on her. “She’s got you, Claud, right? You’re comfortable with her, right? Because I... uh, I have to go and get changed now. And then I really need to go talk to Artie about this, and then... uh... and then I have to... uh...”

Whatever else she had to do, Claudia would probably never know, because in a nanosecond she was gone, not giving HG an opening to press the matter any further, or Claudia a chance to say anything at all. It was all over in less than a heartbeat, and Claudia’s head was reeling harder even than her guts were as she tried to catch her breath yet again and work through what had just happened.

There wasn’t much sense to be gleaned from it, really, and about the only thing she could figure out for sure was that Myka had run away and that it was her fault. She’d screwed up, awkward and messy and clumsy, just like she always did, and she’d freaked Myka out and made her run away. Even in her imaginary world, the perfect Warehouse with her perfect family, she could still find a way to drive the best things away.

But there was still HG, still holding her, still telling her it was all right (but how could it be all right when everything was wrong and she still felt sick and Myka was gone?), and Claudia wanted to thank her, but she was so afraid that if she said anything at all she would drive her away too. But she had to say something; she had to, because HG was there – she was still _there_ , where Myka was gone and Joshua was gone, and everyone was gone or going or worse, she was still there – and that was unfathomable. The world wasn’t real, but HG was still in it, and Claudia clung to the fabric of her shirt like it was the fabric of the whole freakin’ universe.

“I’m sorry...” she whined, over and over and over again. And she was. Sorry for Myka, for Joshua, for imagining her into being, for the world that was so twisted-up and grey and wrong. For all the fighting that wasn’t her fault, and all the feeling that was. For everything. “I’m sorry, HG... I’m so sorry. I’m sorry... I’m so sorry...”

“Oh, darling...” There was something in HG’s voice that Claudia couldn’t place, though whether it was because the sentiment itself was so elusive or simply because she was too far gone to make sense out of anything at all, she did not know. “Don’t apologise. You’ve done nothing wrong. You...” She paused, then breathed a deep, sorrowful sigh. “You have nothing to apologise for, Claudia.”

“The world’s wrong,” Claudia heard herself whisper, and her voice sounded very small and far away. “The world’s wrong, and it’s all my fault.”

“It is _not_ your fault,” HG said sharply, almost aggressive with the force of her emotion. “Claudia, darling...” She took another deep breath, as though willing herself to find some way of breaking through, then seemed to think better of it. “It doesn’t matter. None of this is important. Try not to fret over it.”

That was the stupidest advice Claudia had ever heard, but she didn’t want to point that out. It would be rude, she was sure. So, instead, she just mumbled HG’s name again, and then again and again after that, until the letters lost their meaning.

HG sighed, silenced her with a cool cloth pressed to her lips, then changed the subject completely. “I think...” she mused, tugging at the soaked, bunched fabric of Claudia’s shirt. “...that perhaps, instead of fixating on this business, we should perhaps focus our energies instead on getting you into some fresh clothes now.” She touched Claudia’s face, gently but firmly, and guided her eyes upward. “What say you, darling?”

“I dunno.”

HG sighed again, softer and gentler. “Well, it would be such a shame to waste them, given how kind and efficient your dear proprietor was in acquiring them...” she coaxed.

Claudia groaned. She didn’t want to upset anyone. “All right.”

“Excellent,” HG smiled, all false enthusiasm and exaggerated affection. “Hold still, darling, while I unburden you of your current less-than-pristine attire...”

Claudia breathed, nodding carefully. “I’ll try not to puke on you...” she said softly; it was the closest thing to humour that she could muster just then, and a pretty pathetic one, but HG seemed to appreciate the effort nonetheless. “...or, well, y’know... again.”

HG mustered a wan laugh. “Trust me, darling,” she assured her, “when you live the life that I have, you grow immune to such minor unpleasantries.”

“Not if you’re Myka, apparently,” Claudia lamented, and it might have been funny if she wasn’t still feeling so terrible about the whole thing.

HG patted her arm, gently encouraging. “Don’t think of that now,” she chided. “Myka is... her reaction was no fault of yours, Claudia, and I will not have you making yourself feel worse about it. I will have strong words with her on the subject, be sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes indeed.” She tried to smile again, but the expression wouldn’t come this time, and Claudia felt her own face fall as well. “You have my word. Now, then, your poor shirt...”

“Okay, okay...” Huffing, Claudia twisted her body as best she could so that HG could help her try to wriggle out of the saturated shirt. “But no peeking, okay? I know you got that whole ‘smouldering Victorian voyeur’ thing going on, but...” She felt her eyes slide closed, too weak and miserable to sustain the snark, and felt the almost-lightness of the moment flicker and fade like a burnt-out light-bulb. “Whatever, dude. Just do it.”

“I shall be a perfect gentleman,” HG deadpanned.

She wasn’t, though. She was professional, sort of, but the way that her fingers suddenly stilled on Claudia’s midsection, pressing curiously down, did not feel very gentlemanly at all.

“That hurts,” she complained. it didn’t really, but she didn’t like the idea of someone – even if it was just HG – pressing on her belly when it had already been the reason Myka had run from the room. She still felt sick, for all that she was sure there couldn’t possibly be anything left in her stomach, and she didn’t want to risk another explosion just because HG couldn’t keep her touch light. “Seriously, HG, knock it off. Quit pokin’ at me!”

“Claudia...” HG said, and the fact that she was ignoring her pleas in spite of everything that had just happened spoke volumes in itself.

The sound of her name was an annoyance, but it cut through the noise in her head and the tumult in her body, quiet and urgent but always so freakin’ _British_ (and Claudia’s delirious psyche took that moment to remind her, in a dizzy burst of random clarity, that it did not like seeing the British in their natural environment, with their pollution and their stone floors and their off-limits mini-bars). It was so typically HG, the way that she spoke, so cool and Victorian and not at all like those other British people... and yet something in the way that she wasn’t paying any attention to Claudia’s discomfort was so unlike her, so unlike the way she’d treated her until now, that Claudia felt herself start to panic.

“What is it?” she managed, frightened all over again.

“Claudia,” HG said again, sounding contemplative now; she was speaking very clearly and carefully, like Claudia was a dumb kid who didn’t understand. “Darling, how long has this mark been here?”

She punctuated the question by prodding again at the parts of Claudia’s midsection that she had specifically asked her not to touch. Claudia, naturally, whined at her again, and tried to twist her shivering body out of reach; it was futile, though, of course, because her body never did what she asked it to do even when it wasn’t sick, and right now it wasn’t exactly capable of doing anything at all.

“Dunno what you’re even talkin’ about,” she grumbled instead, wishing that she could manage to sound all full up on righteous fury and indignant rage, and not just plain pathetic. HG frowned at the answer, like it wasn’t what she wanted to hear at all, and pushed down on her stomach again. “Oh my God, stop doing that!”

“I will in a moment, darling,” HG promised. “But this might be significant. Where did you get this mark—” Like the gesture would somehow make Claudia miraculously able to see straight and figure out what she was saying, she took her hand and gently guided it to the spot that she had been so indecorously poking at. “—right here?”

“I don’t know...” Claudia grumbled again; she was starting to feel frustrated now as well as icky. “And I don’t freakin’ care. Just knock it off before I hurl again.” She exhaled shakily, really not liking that prospect. “Please, HG.”

HG huffed a heavy sigh. Under normal circumstances, Claudia would have felt utterly awful (more so even than she already was) for not being able to give her the answer that she wanted, or any answer at all, when it seemed so important to her. As it was, though, she was reeling with too many other kinds of awful just then to make room for any more. She just wanted it all to stop, all of it, _everything_ and there was no space left inside her for whatever HG was trying to do or say or find out. There wasn’t enough left of her to care at all.

“All right, darling.” Clearly, HG had figured out that that she wasn’t going to get anything useful out of Claudia just then, and duly switched to another tack. “Will you be all right here for a moment or two? I need to catch Agent Bering, and, as your dear employer hasn’t seen fit to equip me yet with one of your delightful communications devices, I’m afraid it will just have to be done the old-fashioned way...”

The words struck hard, brutal, lancing Claudia right through the chest; for a moment, she was breathless, stunned by the force of it, and when the moment passed, she found herself feeling very, very small and very, very frightened.

“You’re gonna leave me alone?” she whispered, scared and helpless. 

As if on cue, her mind started running through in screaming Surround Sound all the reasons why she didn’t want to be by herself, all the reasons why she _couldn’t_ be by herself. The drugs that she wanted so badly, the world crumbling all around her, straps and restraints, voices telling her that that she would feel better, that she would _be_ better if she just left her delusions and her fantasy world behind. The belief, simmering beneath the surface of her, even now, that, if she could just accept that imaginary friends weren’t reliable coping methods, she would be all right. Everything would be all right, if only she could give up this world that she loved so much.

She felt juxtaposed, ripped apart at the seams, part of her safe and secure in HG’s arms, warm and comfortable, unable to even remember why she’d ever wanted to be free from this perfect world now that nobody was fighting over her head... but the rest of her was confused and lost, knowing that this wasn’t real, that she needed to be free of it, but too aware of what waited for her on the other side. 

Fear. Raw and solid and painful. The fear of having to deal with that again, of going back to that other world, the world where her only companions were the voices that told her she was crazy, that there was something wrong with her, that she was damaged and in need of repair, those well-meaning hackers trying to reprogram her insides... and, more horrifying still, the fear of knowing that they were right. The dull ache in her chest every time she thought about it, magnified tenfold when she was alone with nobody to distract her, to guide her away from their thrall, the parts of her that wanted so desperately for this to be over that she would do anything – even surrender to her own madness – if only something, some tiny fragment of her sundered mind would make some kind of sense.

She couldn’t fight that on her own; she could barely even fight it now, even with HG right there by her side, could barely keep together the parts of her that was home and safe and loved, when every nerve in her body screamed and shrieked for the reality that was so brutal. She could barely hold it together, even with HG right there, all British and brilliant, the only thing tethering her to this world that was not real (the world that she wanted to be). And now HG was leaving her, taking away her useless words and her useless hands rubbing their perfect circles on her back, the press of her body and the cadence of her voice. Leaving, taking it all away... her lifeline, her tether... and there would be nothing left for Claudia when she was gone, but the madness of sanity.

“I’m sorry, HG,” she heard herself blurting out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me alone. Please. I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.”

“It won’t be for but a moment,” HG assured her, but there was a tremor in her voice now that hadn’t been there even just a moment or two earlier. “You have my word.”

“ _Please_ ,” Claudia cried. “HG, _please_.”

HG made a strangled, heartbroken sound, and took her by the hands. “Claudia, darling. I’m not trying to punish you. And I will not abandon you. I simply need to find Myka and bring her back. I promise you, darling – _I promise_ – that it won’t be for more than a brief moment, and then I shall be back, and I shan’t leave your side again. I promise.”

“I don’t...” She realised, a moment too late, that she couldn’t say it.

“I know,” HG said, just the same, and Claudia almost believed her. “I know you’re very frightened. But I want you to be brave for just a very short time, a very short time indeed, while I fetch Agent Bering. You won’t even know I’m gone, darling, truly.” She squeezed lightly, gentle pressure on the backs of Claudia’s knuckles, and Claudia drew a surprising amount of comfort from the contact, how solid it was and how real it felt. “You are a strong, courageous, resourceful young woman, Claudia, and I have faith in you to be brave while I’m gone.”

She must have sensed that it would break her resolve to hear Claudia begging her to stay again, because, without so much as another word, she was gone. _Gone_... and all of a sudden Claudia really was alone, trembling and terrified and truly.

In the mind of the sick, a moment was a lifetime; in a sick mind, it was an eternity. Claudia was both, and the seconds ticked out into infinity, an ever-increasing spiral, until the passage of time would have been enough in itself to drive her to insanity if she wasn’t there already. She lay on her back, watching as the ceiling tilted and flickered and swayed, waiting for the sound of madness to overpower everything else, for the world to fade out into nothingness, for the straitjacket and the straps to tighten around her, but it never did.

It would have been too kind, she supposed. Too compassionate. Limbo – the no-mans-land of never knowing where she was and what was real – was a far crueller punishment. They would keep her here forever, always wondering where her mind had gone, and whether she would ever find it again.

HG was wrong. Claudia wasn’t brave. She wasn’t strong or courageous, or... well, okay, maybe she was kind of resourceful – at least, once upon a time, she had been – but even that wouldn’t help her now. Now, whatever else she might have been, long ago and far away, she was simply lost, drowning in a vast sea of people and places that didn’t exist. Her imaginary friends had all swum away, and she was all alone. For a moment or a lifetime or for eternity, in this world of make-believe or the other one (the real world, the world that hurt), it didn’t matter: she was _alone_. 

She was all alone.


	10. Chapter 10

“You left her alone?!”

Helena set her jaw, teeth clenching so tightly that Myka could almost see the war being waged between her innate sense of patience and her current lack of it. “Not if you come back with me now,” she said pointedly, voice calm and solid in a way that her body couldn’t quite mimic. “So, then, shall we do that?”

Myka grimaced. She cared deeply for Claudia, of course she did, just like she cared for Pete or for Artie; they were a family, and of course family cared about each other. But her mind (to say nothing of the rest of her) was still reeling from their last encounter, visceral memories of seeing Claudia so sick, and getting too close to her, branded like a scar on her mind’s eye, and she couldn’t deny (even as it embarrassed her) that she was a little anxious about the idea of setting herself up for the same experience again.

“Myka,” Helena pressed, sensing her discomfiture, even as she was so clearly trying to rein in her own restlessness; her foot was tapping, though, and giving her away. “I think she may be under the influence of an artefact, and I would very much appreciate your input on the matter. I will, of course, speak to Artie if my suspicions are confirmed, but I’d like to be sure before I rock the boat, so to speak... and you yourself were in London with her.”

Struggling to absorb all of that, Myka merely nodded, mute and dumb.

“You were there, Myka,” Helena pressed. “Thus, you’d be the most likely candidate to recognise...” She trailed off suddenly, shaking her head. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I gave her my word that I would be back in a moment, and we are wasting time discussing it here when we should be with her.”

“All right,” Myka conceded, already sure that she’d regret it. “But if she’s still feeling sickly, keep her away from me.”

Helena laughed, already halfway back towards the bathroom. “Oh? The great Myka Bering, Warehouse Agent extraordinaire, is afraid of a little bodily unpleasantness?”

“A little?!” Myka shot back, aghast. “Helena, it was everywhere!”

“You exaggerate,” Helena said, glancing briefly back to make sure she was following, but not breaking stride. “But exaggeration is quite becoming on you.”

“Oh, shut up...” Myka grumbled, but she smiled just the same.

They found Claudia almost exactly where Myka remembered leaving her, give or take. She was curled up in a tight little ball, hugging her shirt to her chest like it was a stuffed animal or a security blanket. Helena was by her side again in less than an instant, settling down on her haunches and leaning in to whisper barely-audible placations against Claudia’s ear. Myka, for her part, stood in the doorway, awkward and uncomfortable, and wished that she could be a little better at this sort of thing.

Honestly, there weren’t many things that fazed her – she could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, how many times she’d lost her cool on the job – and fewer still that made her really and truly (and to coin one of Claudia’s favoured clichés) freak out. And yet, as much to her own disgust as it was to Helena’s amusement, _this_ – in the grand scheme of everything that she’d seen and done and experienced, practically nothing! – seemed to have become one of them. It surprised her somewhat, how utterly out of her depth she was, how completely she’d panicked, how anxious and frightened she felt, how unlike her it was.

“There,” Helena was saying, speaking to Claudia as though Myka wasn’t even in the room at all. “I told you I wouldn’t be more than a moment.” Claudia didn’t respond, though whether it was by choice and petulance or the product of her condition, Myka couldn’t tell; regardless, the silence was enough to concern Helena, and she frowned. “Claudia?”

Claudia made a tiny, barely audible noise – a response of sorts, Myka supposed – but still didn’t actually say anything. Helena sighed, apparently taking the refusal to talk as a mark of rebellion for her momentary absence, and gently helped her to sit up. Myka watched from her helpless little corner, and also said nothing, as Claudia (for all that she still refused to actually acknowledge their presence) offered no resistance, letting Helena sit her up and shape her body into the best position for her purposes.

“There,” Helena said again when she was done, and for a few seconds, Myka wasn’t entirely sure which of the two of them she was talking to. “Right there, on her side. You see?”

Cautious, Myka inched forwards, trying to keep as much distance as she could between herself and Claudia while still trying to perform the task she’d been brought here for. The guilt, still a staple of her psyche by then, surged and swelled, but never quite high enough to overpower the fear of another incident.

For all that working with Claudia, like Pete, could sometimes be described as babysitting, and for all that she was well aware of the way that Claudia kind of looked up to her, seeing her as some bizarre kind of role model, there was nonetheless something brutally different in this. It wasn’t just unwarranted hero-worship this time, or Claudia being Claudia, or anything else that she was used to. This time, Claudia really, really needed help – real, proper help – and she and Helena were both depending on her, Myka, to somehow miraculously know exactly how to make it all better. As though they thought there was some kind of magic button that only she knew the location of.

But, of course, there wasn’t, and even if there had been, she wouldn’t have known where it was. She wasn’t the kind of person that Claudia saw in her. She wasn’t the epic badass who knew everything and could do everything and was good at everything without even thinking about it. She was the distracted, preoccupied agent who had failed to pay attention and had let an idealistic young woman get hurt. And even now, even with concussion safely discarded as an option, she still couldn’t look at Claudia – couldn’t see her suffering, see the pain and the sickness and the terror on her face – and not seize up with the irrevocable conviction that it was all completely her fault.

She could have been more attentive, more careful... more of anything. She could have taken Claudia’s jetlag more seriously, or her anxieties on the plane, or the fall she’d taken. There were so many things, so many countless things that that she could have done differently, so much that should have been done better (that it was her responsibility to do better), and every time she looked at Claudia now, face contorted with pain and fear, and body soaked with fever sweat, it was like a hammer to her chest, violently and relentlessly pounding out the rhythm of her oversights.

“Myka...” Helena encouraged, grounding her in what was here and now and present, and Myka forced herself to focus on the safety that came with analysis.

Once she could bring herself to actually look close enough, it only took about half a second for her to see that Helena had to be right. By her own admission, she wasn’t exactly familiar with the lines and contours of Claudia’s body, but she knew enough about spotting the telltale signs of artefact interference to recognise that there was nothing natural about the burn marring her torso. Looking at it, Myka found herself filled with a sudden burst of intensity, focused even to the exclusion of her own guilt-stricken discomfort, studying the mark’s pattern, small but distinctive, blazing like a beacon on Claudia’s usually pale skin (flushed as it was just then with heat and exertion), a vivid warning of something unnatural beneath.

“Is it fresh?” Helena asked tentatively, then added (because, apparently, she simply couldn’t help herself, even now), “Not that I’d ever deign to assume you would be so intimately acquainted with Miss Donovan’s midsection as to know whether or not she...” She trailed off with an innocuous half-shrug when Myka glared. “At any rate, I’m sure that your knowledge on the subject, such as it is, is nonetheless superior to mine. Regardless, however, it smacks of artifice to me.”

“Yeah.” Myka swallowed, and braced herself to lean in closer; squeamish or not, this definitely required a closer look.

Amused by her hesitation, but also very serious about the issue at hand, Helena shifted ever so slightly backwards, rebalancing herself with no effort and opening up the space between them for Myka to invade. Myka shot her an uneasy glance, her expression caught somewhere between _‘thank you’_ and _‘are you really sure she’s safe now?’_.

“Myka,” Helena chuckled, “the poor dear is hardly in any condition to hurt you.”

Myka rolled her eyes. “That’s what I thought the last time,” she muttered derisively, willing the staunch professional in her – the mature corner of her mind, the professional, the part that, quite frankly, was supposed to be in control already – to win out over the part that was still afraid of a little bodily unpleasantness.

She crouched down, still holding about a foot’s worth of distance, and stretched her arm out at its full length to touch the mark. It was searing hot, more so even than the feverish skin surrounding it, and Myka was surprised to discover that she wasn’t actually surprised at all.

“That’s definitely artefact-y,” she confirmed.

She didn’t even have to stop and think about it; really, she hadn’t even needed to touch it. She had been working in the Warehouse for long enough by now to know the signs, even when they weren’t nearly so blazingly obvious as they were this time. And this time, blessedly for all involved, they were practically shooting off bright purple fireworks. Even Helena had noticed it, and she’d been a bronze statue for the last hundred years or so; really, Myka thought, you didn’t get much more obvious than that.

“She’s touched something...” she added, contemplative. The words tasted wrong, though, inaccurate, and she frowned, knowing that couldn’t possibly be true; she had been telling the truth when she’d told Artie that Claudia was not the type to touch things without thinking. “...or else, something’s touched her.”

“I suspected as much,” Helena said; and her expression was a heartbreaking blend of distress and relief. “Thank you for confirming it.”

Myka forced herself to stop staring at the conflict on Helena’s face, to tune herself into the task at hand, to keep her focus on the mark, on Claudia, and with it her thoughts. She willed her mind back to London, to the museum, to Claudia’s inherent clumsiness, to the way she’d fallen, to the display case shattering and spilling its contents all over her, knowing by instinct that it must have been then that it happened. She had dismissed the notion at the time, quite naturally; as far as she’d been able to tell, there had been pretty much no direct-skin contact at all, and Claudia hadn’t seemed the least bit affected once Myka had allowed her to stand up and set herself right again... but now she found herself wondering, replaying the scene over and over through fresh eyes.

Had she missed something? Should she have paid more attention to the possibility of other artefacts in the display? It wouldn’t, after all, have been the first time. Should she have bagged every single item that had fallen on her, just to be safe? What would Artie have done? No... what would he have told her to do?

The problem was, for all that Myka prided herself on her photographic memory, she hadn’t actually looked at any of the display pieces that she’d pulled off Claudia. It wasn’t that she couldn’t remember the event, it was just that she hadn’t been paying attention to items that had – at the time – been little more than unnecessary distractions. She had been more occupied by what she’d thought was more important, the logical, sensible things, things like covering their tracks and making sure that Claudia hadn’t inadvertently KO’d herself. Next to that, making sure Claudia was okay and that they weren’t about to be caught in the act, little nuances like taking stock of the countless bits and pieces of trinketry that she’d spilled simply hadn’t seemed so critical.

The upshot of that negligence now, though, was that she needed to talk to Artie about it, and as soon as possible.

Honestly, the thought didn’t fill her with nearly so much horror as she’d expected it to. For all that she was dreading the inevitable explosion, and automatically ill-disposed to the idea of talking to Artie at all, about anything, she couldn’t deny the automatic gratitude that flooded her chest at having a ready-made excuse to put a safe distance between herself and the ailing Claudia.

The moment didn’t last, though, and the surge of reflexive relief was eclipsed almost instantly by another spasm of overwhelming guilt, this time for allowing herself to feel that way. It was only right that she be here, her conscience insisted angrily; it was no less than she deserved for her neglect. Wasn’t she the reason Claudia was suffering in the first place? Wasn’t it only right that she have a front-row seat to witness the damaged fruit borne of her distraction? What she wouldn’t have given at that moment, she thought sadly, to be more like Helena... so willing, so diligent, so alive when taking care of Claudia... and she shook herself forcefully out of her guilt-stricken reverie to again study the broken lines of conflict on the other woman’s face.

“I’ll tell Artie,” she said, wishing that she could make herself sound less happy about it. “Do you mind staying with her for a little while?”

Helena seemed appalled that she would even think to ask the question at all, much less phrase it as though there was any doubt in her mind of what the answer would be. “Of course I don’t mind!” she cried, positively aghast. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving her alone for even a moment longer than I absolutely must.” She touched Claudia’s face, a barely-there brush of fingertips across her temples, so tender that it stole the breath from Myka’s lungs to see it.

The sound that Claudia made wasn’t exactly a response to the contact (or, if it was supposed to be one, it definitely wasn’t coherent), but it was so tiny and so hopeless, so filled with fear and misery that Myka felt the cracks of pain spread wide in her chest. “I’ll go tell Artie now,” she repeated, because it was so much less painful than staying, and hated herself for taking it as an opportunity instead of a regret.

Artie, predictably if understandably, was not pleased.

“You told me that wasn’t an option,” he reminded her, practically shaking with fury. “You told me she didn’t touch anything.”

“She didn’t!”

They’d barely even exchanged ten words, and already Myka could feel her blood rising. She closed her eyes, willed herself to find the restraint to focus on what really mattered, to block out the righteous fury that didn’t matter right now, to forget the conflict and the fighting that had gone before. With every ounce of discipline she had, she fought back the rising anger, swallowed it down by sheer force of will, seeing in her mind’s eye the suffering on Claudia’s face and the sorrow on Helena’s. They were what mattered now.

“Artie,” she sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Can we argue about this later? She really needs us.”

Every part of him seemed to soften at that, as though the thought genuinely hadn’t occurred to him until she actually said it, as though it was suddenly hitting him for the first time that his protégé was in a bad way, that she was sick and hurting, that that was the only thing that mattered. Suddenly, it was right there, the realisation hitting him right between the eyes, bright and blinding as a flash of light, and the emotion following close on its heels, a pack of rabid dogs waiting to feed on his heart. Myka’s own tightened with empathy; she knew just how he felt.

“Oh,” he mumbled, and his voice was a perfect echo of her own, weak and drained and so very worried. “Yes. Of course. Is she—?” He gestured, and it wasn’t just his voice that was a mirror of Myka’s; she recognised, as well, far too well, the squeamish anxiety trembling like tears in his eyes.

“Bad,” she answered, with raw honesty, and shuddered at the memory. “She’s really bad, Artie.” Then, without tearing her gaze from his, “Helena’s with her.”

For the first time, the name wasn’t a contention. This time, for the first time, it was a whisper of reassurance, a touch of comfort, a promise. She wasn’t making a point, wasn’t arguing; she was simply telling him, in as few words as possible, that Claudia was being cared for, that someone was with her and looking after her, that she was not suffering alone. Myka wasn’t using Helena’s name to reinforce their crusade, to defend the right of a former villain to be called an agent, or to prove anything. All she wanted was for Artie to know and understand that Claudia was being taken care of, that the fiery young woman that she knew he loved as deeply as any father was in good hands. It was all he needed to know, and all she wanted to say.

More telling than anything else in the world just then was the fact that Artie seemed to get it.

“I’m glad someone is,” he said, almost too quietly to be heard, a rare moment of almost-vulnerability creeping out through the cracks in his gruff exterior, even as he tried his hardest not to let it show. “I’m...”

He sighed and shook his head, seemingly unable to say the words. Not that he needed to; of all people, Myka understood. The fact that he was letting her see it, even if he couldn’t bring himself to put it into words... it was enough. More than enough. She understood it, because she was feeling it herself.

“Me either,” she said softly; part of her wanted to take his hand or touch his shoulder, to make a connection, however superficial, but she couldn’t bring herself to break through the barriers they’d set up, together, between them. “I’m no good at this stuff either.”

Artie growled. It didn’t surprise Myka very much at all that he didn’t want to talk about it, but there was something in him now that hadn’t been there before, the same breed of guilt shared between them, and it lessened hers to know it was his too. Part of her wanted to leave it, to let it be enough that the sentiment existed, the wordless rapport of being afraid of the same thing, but she was afraid of letting it flicker and fade. She didn’t want to lose it, didn’t want to let it slip away before she could draw it into herself and remember a time when they hadn’t been at each other’s throats. Things weren’t okay between them, not now and not yet, but she could almost taste a memory of how they had been before all of this, and the part of her that wasn’t still reeling was hungry for more.

“She threw up,” she explained, over-sharing before she could stop to think about whether or not it was a good idea. “And I don’t mean like...” She gestured, as though that would help. “I mean, all over me. And I just... I just freaked out. I freaked out, and I panicked, and I just... I ran away.” She sighed, clenching her jaw until she felt the pain. “You know the kind of stuff we see here, Artie, every single day. You know how bad it can get out there. But that...”

In a strange sort of way, she took comfort from the way he was already turning pale, just by hearing the words. “Are we really going to discuss this?” he demanded.

“Not if you don’t want to,” she offered quickly, trying to keep from ruining the moment before it even had a chance to become one. “I’m just saying... I freeze up too. And I spend... no offense, but I spend much more time in the field than you do. And I couldn’t handle it. I was right there, and I couldn’t handle it.”

“At least you were there,” Artie grumbled, and it sounded so much like a confession that Myka’s breath caught in her throat.

“That doesn’t help her,” Myka pointed out. “It just means I let her down in person. And it’s worse. It’s worse that I was there, Artie, because she saw me. She saw how freaked out I was. She saw me turn around and run. She was sick... really, really _sick_... and now she thinks she did something wrong. Because you know her, Artie. We both do. We both know what she’s like. She’ll think it’s her fault, that she’s the one who screwed up, that she freaked me out and scared me away, and I...” She looked him right in the eye, then, unwavering and unflinching for the first time since all this had started. “So, okay. Maybe you won’t be there for her. And maybe that’ll hurt her too. But at least she won’t have to remember the look on your face when you ran away.”

For a long while, Artie didn’t say anything; under any other circumstances, the look on his face would have been almost comical, a conflation of gratitude and horror, as though he couldn’t quite decide whether he wanted to thank her for her words or voice his disgust at the fact that she’d chosen to say them at all.

He was a lot like her, she realised; neither of them really liked to talk, and yet sometimes, in their particular line of work, moments like this simply called out to them, strong arms of other people’s pain pushing them together and driving them to find a kind of common ground that they would never have found if left to themselves. It was occasionally a beautiful thing, those precious breaths of pure empathy shared between two people so similar that they couldn’t be anything but polar opposites... and yet, most of the time, it ended like this, uncomfortable and filled with awkward silences.

“Myka...” he said, at long last, and, though his eyes were sparking just a little, she could tell by the low gruffness of his tone that he wasn’t going to let the sentiment claim him. “Are you trying to make this a _moment_?” He scowled, suddenly just like his old self, as though the last few minutes had never existed. “Because you know my thoughts on _moments_ happening in my Warehouse.”

“Uh... no?”

They had played this game before, of course, and she knew exactly when to back off. Still, though, it felt good, even if it was only for a few barely-acknowledged words, to pretend that the friction between them, the clashes that had been so constant since Helena’s arrival, all the tension that had become so fundamental a part of all their conversations... that all of those things might one day not be such a big deal. It was nice to remember, even for just a moment (or, as in this case, a not-moment) that they hadn’t always been the way they had been lately.

“Myka!” Naturally, Artie did not share her feelings... or, if he did, he had no intention of letting her know that. And, honestly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“What?” she asked, all innocence. “I don’t see a moment! Do you see a moment? Because I definitely don’t see one...”

Artie glared, and it was the kind of glare that was everything she’d missed in him, everything she hadn’t even realised she was missing at all until it was right there, that glare she knew so well, and it was almost like breathing normally again. 

“Good,” he muttered, clearly unconvinced, but grateful all the same for her efforts, both to make the point and then to pretend it had never happened at all.

“Good,” she echoed, trying not to look smug about it.

Artie rolled his eyes, but refused to rise to the bait, just as she’d known he would. “So, if you don’t mind, _Agent_ Bering...” he pressed, “...can we stop trying to make moments out of molehills, and get back over there and find whatever’s doing this to her?”

There was something odd in his voice, there, something uncharacteristic and desperate, even as he laid his usual tone on a little too thick. For her part, Myka was a bit thrown by how comforting it was to be back in the familiar realm of taking orders and not having to fight with him over every little nuance. Out of all of them, she was always the one he could count on to do what she was told without so much as blinking, and she was always comfortable in trusting that he wouldn’t skimp on the details they’d need. It was a kind of symbiosis, a connection that was sometimes the only thing keeping either one of them from strangling Pete when he tried so hard to irritate them both.

“I’ll have tickets for a flight within the hour,” he was telling her. “Go. Get ready. And... take _her_ with you.”

Myka gawped. “Her?” she echoed in the half-second before the penny dropped. “Wait. You mean _Helena_?”

Artie growled, annoyed that she was drawing attention to his unspoken peace offering, and Myka shut her mouth as quickly as she could for fear he would decide to take the offer back.

“No, I mean the tooth fairy,” he muttered irritably. “Yes, of course I mean Helena! She knows the country, and she’s familiar with its history. So she can help you narrow down what may or may not be...” He cut himself off to glare at her, apparently a little bit offended by the stunned optimism that she knew was probably lighting up her face as he explained. “Stop that. Now, I assume you have no idea what type of artefact we’re most likely to be dealing with...”

Myka sighed, thinking it through, collating what little she could remember of the displays they had been handling, the things she’d so readily dismissed. “It was mostly trinkets and things,” she mused aloud. “Jewellery, that sort of stuff. They not really very well organised over there, but I guess they want their exhibitions to be.”

“Good,” he said, the weight of his sincerity startling them both, though Myka knew better than to let it touch her face this time. “That’s a starting point. Now, go get the devil woman and go get packed. Before I remember that this is a bad idea.”

To her surprise, the ‘devil woman’ in question (Myka took some offense at the title, though it soothed the wound a little to know that, had she been there to hear it for herself, Helena would probably have just laughed) wasn’t quite so enthused by the gesture.

“What?” she asked, when Myka told her about it, and there was something behind her eyes that was nearly dangerous.

“He wants you to come with,” she explained again, slower, not quite understanding the look of distress that coloured the other woman’s face, overshadowing even the deep-set lines of her concern for Claudia, even as she continued to hold her like she was the only thing in all the world that mattered (while Myka, like the coward she was, stood pathetically in the doorway). “He wants you to come to London with me. He wants you to help me find the artefact that’s doing this to her. He _trusts_ you, Helena!”

Looking somewhere between distraught and angry, Helena shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, and Myka could hear the tears lodged in her throat, tears that she did not understand and was too impatient to try to. “I can’t go with you.”

“HG...” Myka said, completely thrown.

Through all the sorrow and pain they’d all endured that morning, through all the rage and bitterness that had been festering like an open sore between the three of them – her, Helena, Artie – and radiating outwards to taint and poison everyone else who got near it, through everything that had happened, this was the first piece of news that, so far as Myka could see, was inescapably positive. It was good, actually good! She couldn’t understand Helena’s reticence at all, and the frown must have touched her face because Helena sighed softly and shook her head.

“No.”

“Helena.” Myka frowned. “This is good. It’s a good thing. It means that—”

“It means that I would have to leave her,” Helena said; her voice was trembling, and Myka watched the possessive patterns that she was tracing across the bare planes of Claudia’s back, barely even seeming to realise that she was doing it at all. “And I won’t do that. I won’t do it, Myka. Let my decision do what it will, let it utterly destroy, if that is how it shall be, the faith that Artie has finally seen fit to place in me.” (It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, Myka mused sadly). “I don’t care. For as long as she is like this, I will not leave her. I will not allow another child to...” She closed her eyes, fighting back something more powerful than anything Myka herself could ever comprehend. “I won’t leave this place while she is here and in pain. I’m sorry, but I will not do it.”

Myka didn’t know how to respond to that. The look in Helena’s eyes, the darkness behind them, the threat of danger... though she showed nothing but the gentlest side of herself to Claudia, the tender trailing of her fingertips, whispered words and heartfelt ministrations (not that Claudia was in any position to notice them, much less anything else around her), there was something raw burning beneath the surface, a volcano threatening at any moment to erupt. It was unfamiliar, and for probably the first time since she and Helena had come into each other’s lives (even back when she really had been a villain), Myka was afraid of her.

Grief was a powerful emotion, she knew, and it could devour even the purest souls, wreak destruction that even the strongest minds could not anticipate. They knew it; all three of them knew it. Myka, Claudia, Helena; they had all lost loved ones, all felt their worlds come crashing down around them. There wasn’t one among them who hadn’t felt the pull of all-consuming grief, that endless moment where everything stopped and all they knew was pain... but blazing in Helena now, alight in her, that moment shaped itself into something new, something more than dangerous, and to look at it was to look into the abyss.

It was Myka’s duty, she realised, to pull her back from the edge.

Maybe she couldn’t do anything to help Claudia, her own self-involved guilt and discomfort paralysing her and rooting her to the spot, making her look at everything except the way she was shaking... but the same restriction didn’t apply to Helena. Quite the opposite, in fact; Helena was, in a strange sort of way, even more Myka’s responsibility than Claudia was, more than she’d ever been. Claudia had forced her way into the Warehouse, under her own power and by her own will; Myka was responsible for her in the field, looked after her and protected her because she cared about her... but Claudia’s place here had never been rooted in Myka’s intervention the way that Helena’s was. Myka was a part of Claudia’s family, of course, but she was just one part. For Helena, though, she was much more. She was her backbone, her source of strength. She was – more literally than either of them wanted to think about – the very reason she was here.

“Helena,” she said. “I...” She shook her head, going for honesty. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“No,” Helena agreed, without hesitation; though Myka knew she had her full attention, she refused to tear her gaze away from Claudia. “You can’t imagine it, Myka. And I pray that you never will.” Even lowered as they were to her charge, the flash in her eyes was unmistakeable, and she pulled Claudia in close enough to shield her from the conversation, from the darkness in her, from the world that would hurt her. “If this is going to claim her... if we are doomed to lose another soul ahead of her time... if that is to be the end of it... then I will not be halfway across the world when it happens.” Her entire body was alight, a beacon of resolve. “I will not be absent this time.”

Myka breathed in, deep and steadying. She wanted to concede, to say that she understood, even if she couldn’t truly _understand_ , to let Helena be where she felt she needed to be, to let her channel her grief and anger in whatever way she had to if it would lessen it, to let Claudia be a substitute for her lost daughter if that would help, to do anything, anything in the world to take that dark-touched pain from her eyes.

But she wouldn’t. Not yet. It wasn’t right for Claudia, and it wasn't right for Helena, either. A substitute would never be good enough, for all that she wished it would be, and it wouldn’t do either of them any good to indulge in that. Helena would just be hurt either way – angry if Claudia survived where her Christina had not, and angrier still if she didn’t and another innocent was lost.

...not that Myka would allow herself to think of that possibility, and she shook her head to drive it away, feeling the hitch in her breath and hoping that Helena wouldn’t see it. 

“Helena,” she said instead, willing her voice to remain strong where the rest of her could not. “Artie thinks you’re our best shot at finding this thing. If you want to help her, really help, then coming to London and helping me to find the artefact... that is how you can help.”

“You and I both know,” Helena said flatly, “that my knowledge, such as it is, isn’t nearly sufficient to alter the course of this. For good or for ill, it will be as it is, and my outdated knowledge of a nation long lost to decay won’t make you any more or less likely to find the thing that has caused this. The London that spawned the artefact is centuries behind me, and the London that houses it now is centuries ahead. There is no place for me in either of those worlds.” Her expression shifted, almost softening. “Besides, I have absolute faith in you to do what needs to be done. You will find the artefact, because you must, whether I am there or not.”

“And if I don’t?” Myka demanded, feeling the fear cut like a garrotte across her throat.

“You will,” Helena told her. “But it doesn’t matter. I will not change anything by being there instead of being here, and I feel that my talents would be better used here. We both know that neither yourself nor Pete are half so well-schooled in caring for the young or the sick as I am.”

Maybe it was true, but even if it was, Myka didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to think that Helena’s presence might not be enough to make this easy, that having her at her side wouldn’t make the pieces fall into place like a perfectly-executed game of Tetris. She didn’t want to think about all the countless reasons why it wouldn’t matter if she was there or not. She didn’t want to think about it because... because, at the very heart of it all, she realised that she simply _wanted_ her there. She didn’t need her. The mission didn’t hinge on it, she knew that was true. But she wanted her just the same. Not for Claudia, not because it would increase their chances of finding the artefact, not to reinforce the truth that Artie was placing in her, not for anything or anyone but herself. She just wanted her.

The honesty poured out of her, earnestness spilling over before she had the chance to even try and hold it back. “I want you there, Helena.”

Helena sighed, the motion rocking both her body and Claudia’s, and it was hard to tell which of the two of them whimpered. “If that is Artie’s order,” she said, “or your request... and if, in either of those capacities, it is unshakeable... then of course I will go, and I will not utter a word of complaint when I do. But it is not what _I_ want.”

The words hurt, and Myka hated herself for letting them hope when there was so much true pain all around her.

“Myka,” Helena pressed, sorrowful. “You... _you_ , who would be the wisest choice for this... can scarcely stand to be in the same room as her. And Pete, for all his merits—” Myka couldn’t think of any, but she refrained from interrupting to say so. “—has no familiarity, at least none of which I am aware, with the needs of a sick child, or a sick young woman, or however she is to be defined.” She touched Claudia’s face again, brutally tender, and Myka felt tears prick behind her eyes. “Until you are comfortable with this, Myka, until _you_ feel able to be what she needs, then I am the best option to fill that void.”

“Leena can do it,” Myka said, automatic. She could feel herself grasping at straws, but could not stop. “She’s really good with Claudia.”

“Myka.” Helena’s voice was raw, unhinged. Claudia whined at the sound, and Helena soothed her seemingly without a second thought, the gesture coming almost as second nature; Myka had to force herself to listen to her words, and not to lose herself in the unguarded beauty. “This is my gift. Perhaps it is hers too, but she has many. And I do not.”

“That’s not—”

“—the point,” Helena interrupted, flawlessly smooth. “What is, however, is the fact that it is one of the very, very few things that I do better than any of you, Leena included. Even in this brave new world, this so-called civilisation so filled with unnecessary complications, so gorged on its own advancement, it seems that _this_ has not changed: it seems that I can still look after a child who is ill... that, even in this alien existence, that gift is still mine. I can care for her when she needs comfort, do what is required when her body treats her unkindly, react without flinching to the effects that so disturb you. I can do all of those things, Myka, and with experience. I can be by her side now, where I could not be for—” She stopped, apparently sensing the danger in saying the name, and shook her head. “I may not be _who_ she needs, Myka – for all I am, I will never be you – but I can be _what_ she needs. So please... for me, as much as for her... let me.”

She may not have said her daughter’s name out loud, but Myka had heard it as clearly as if she had. “Helena. It wasn’t... you said it wasn’t the fever that killed Christina. She was murdered. Even if you can be for Claudia, even if you can take care of her like you would have taken care of Christina, it won’t change—”

“I know that!” Helena snapped, voice sharp and keen as a blade. “But the irreversibility of her death does not change the fact that I wasn’t there. My daughter... my own child was sick with fever, just as Claudia is now, and I was not there to comfort her. And then she was killed, and I was not there to protect her, either.” Her eyes were on Claudia again now, as though she was the only thing in the world, as though Myka wasn’t there at all. “And I did all that I could – I travelled back in time! I reshaped the fabric of the universe so that I could be there! – and still I did not care for her as I should have. I was so utterly consumed by making right the wrong that I did not think to look after her in the moments that I had. I did not...” Her head tilted, barely perceptible, to the way Claudia was shivering in her arms. “I did not hold her, or tell her that it would be all right, or cool her brow, or rub her back, or soothe her to sleep. I did not try to ease her suffering, or offer her comfort. _I did nothing_ , Myka! Knowing what was to come, the fever seemed so insignificant. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t why I was there, and so I ignored it.” She sighed, tangibly cursing herself with every breath she had within her, and Myka ached to say something but her lungs were on fire with empathic pain. “I was so sure I would be able to _save_ her, I didn’t think about _caring_ for her.”

“Helena...” Myka managed. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“Don’t make me go to London,” Helena said. “I beg of you, Myka. Let me stay with her.”

The arguments that Myka knew she should be making, all the countless reasons why she shouldn’t be even thinking of allowing this, everything flew out of her head. She couldn’t make a sound, much less offer up a cohesive counterpoint. All she could do was stare, struck dumb, for a long moment, and watch as Helena, her piece said, turned her attention back to Claudia.

At long last, after what seemed like a lifetime, she heard her own voice, coming as if from across a great distance, a grudging “...fine...”, and a promise to talk to Pete about going to London in Helena’s stead.

Part of her was hoping that he’d feel a ‘vibe’ about the whole thing, that he might do that irritating thing he did sometimes when all he had to do was take one look at her and know exactly what she wanted him to say, to know in a single glance that she was really kind of counting on him to refuse. She wanted him to be her excuse, her out, her reason for going back to Helena and saying that it just wasn’t impossible, making her come with whether she wanted to or not. She wanted Pete to take the need for an argument out of her hands.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He was Pete, and he was as worried about Claudia as the rest of them... and he, more than any of the others, was most at home when he was taking action. He didn’t want to waste his time sitting around and waiting for something to either happen or not, for someone else to do something, hoping that Claudia would get better but not actually doing anything about it himself. Finding out that maybe it was an artefact issue after all must have been the best news he could have hoped for, under the circumstances, and Myka didn’t miss the way he tried to keep his eyes from lighting up at the idea that – at long last – he might be able to actually do something.

“Sure,” he said without hesitation, and, though he tried to keep his voice even and as close to professional as he ever got, she could feel the optimistic hope vibrating through every inch of him. “I been meaning to go back there anyway. Y’know, since you guys failed so pathetically in your souvenir-buying duties...”

That left only Artie, and Myka took some comfort in knowing that at least she could count on him to put a stop to this. No matter the situation, Artie would never allow Helena to make her own decisions while he was in charge. Not even about this. Not even with so compelling an argument behind her. Not even—

“Fine.”

Myka blinked, then frowned, feeling her last hope thrown out of the window. “I’m sorry?”

“I said ‘fine’,” he repeated. “Take Pete, then.”

“Just like that?” Myka managed, not really able to believe what she was hearing, and from who. “You’re, what, suddenly okay with this?”

He didn’t turn around, locked in as he was on a stack of records almost taller than he was, to say nothing of the same flashing at lightning speed across his computer screen, but there was a sudden tightness to his shoulders that was inescapable.

“Myka,” he said, very seriously. “I don’t care who you take, I don’t care what you do or how you do it or where you go, or why. The only thing I care about is that you _get it done_.”

Though she knew he’d never admit it in a million years, there was a definite quaver in his voice, matching the tenseness almost exactly, and Myka ached to say something, to tell him that she knew just how he felt, that she was scared out of her mind as well, that she – more than anyone else right then – understood how pathetic he must feel, how afraid for Claudia and yet unable to find the strength within himself, the courage to just go and see her.

Briefly, she wondered which was worse – Artie, tying himself to the Warehouse, locking himself up in boxes filled with unimportant things, terrified of how bad it really was but too afraid to find out... or she, Myka, who had seen it, who had witnessed it first-hand, and who knew for sure that it really was every bit as bad as Artie was so afraid of.

Either way, she supposed, the end result was the same: between them, they were both too paralysed with their own terror-touched issues to go back in and be strong, both too caught up in their own pointless panics to suck it up and be brave for the one who so needed them. They were kindred spirits, if worlds apart, and in the worst possible way.

She didn’t voice any of that, though. She just nodded and said, “We’ll get it done”, and let the words ring out a pledge to herself, to Helena and to Claudia, as much as a promise to him.

“Good,” he said, and then spun his chair around.

For a moment, he just looked at her, wordless and expressionless, like he was willing her to know what he was thinking, to read his feelings without having to hear them, and it was only when he sighed and opened his mouth that she realised it wasn’t at all that he wanted her to hear the words in the silence; it was hat he was working himself up to say them out loud.

“Myka...” he said, tentative and fumbling, as he so often was when he wasn’t comfortable with a particular topic.

“It’s okay, Artie,” she said, not really sure why she was saying it when there were parts of her that were still angry with him, but she couldn’t bear to see him so conflicted, so struggling, so unlike himself. “We’ll find this thing. Pete and me. We always do, don’t we?”

“I know,” he said, and the weight behind the words was almost a confession in itself. “Myka... I wouldn’t be sending you if I didn’t think you could do this... if I didn’t know you can.” He swallowed, and she watched the spasm catch in his throat, not really sure what he was driving at, even as the lines on his face practically begged her to put him out of his misery. “But you should know that...”

He sighed again, and then Myka did get it. “...you wouldn’t be sending me if you really thought half of what you said before?” she said.

Grunting irritably, he nodded. “It wasn’t your fault,” he muttered, speaking mostly to the floor. “It could have happened to any of us. And it has. I’ve seen it – I’ve _done_ it – more times than anyone can count.” He sighed again, suddenly sounding older even than he was. “We all put ourselves at risk when we go out there, and we all know how unpredictable artefacts can be. Distracted or not, I trust your judgement. And I know you well enough to know that, if an artefact did take hold of her... it would have happened with anyone. And probably sooner than it did.”

The words meant more than Myka could say. And so, of course, she didn’t say anything. 

Artie, for his part, spun his chair back around and glowered at the computer, apparently unable to look at her. “And we shall now pretend that this conversation never happened.”

“What conversation?” she asked, light, then immediately sobered because there was no need to pretend this wasn’t a _moment_ when all she could see was the back of his head. “Thank you, Artie. I needed to hear that.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘pretending it never happened’...” he warned, almost like his old self.

But Myka heard, as clear as a bell the admission that he couldn’t voice ( _“and I needed to say it”_ ), and she let the sentiment, if not the words, bend the air between them into something like reconciliation.


	11. Chapter 11

The only thing Claudia could feel was the solid warmth of HG’s body, too much and not enough and both at the same time, and the only thing she could understand was that she was drowning in it.

There were words there, too. A dim and distant rippling, pebbles of sound skimming across the vast lake of Claudia’s ever-growing psychosis, offers of comfort and compassion. HG, ever the wordsmith, composing sweeping lyrical prose, novels and essays about the nature of her condition because it was what she did. Words were HG’s greatest gift, the most precious thing she had to give, and Claudia knew that she should have been grateful for them, should have taken some of the solace they held, but just thinking about them made her feel worse.

They made her hurt. They cut, lashed her from every angle, told her things that were not true and made her believe that they were, and she wished that they would all just leave her alone.

Claudia had never really liked words. She didn’t like it when she had to use them herself – always so clumsy, tongue always so ready to tie itself in knots rather than try and make sense of its own function – and she didn’t like it, either, when other people used them to draw attention to her, talking about her or to her or around her. Words were convoluted, messy, annoying things. Words were for people like Myka and Leena and HG, people who were smart and elegant and beautiful. They weren’t for people like Claudia, who tripped over her feet as often as her tongue and couldn’t hold a thought. 

She liked circuits and systems and blueprints. She lived in the world of the mechanical, the electronic, the built and the designed. She liked things that didn’t talk, and that didn’t expect her to talk either. Hers was a wordless world, a world of numbers and patterns, and she had always felt safe there, brave and powerful in a way that she could never be in this place forged of stupid sounds shaped so softly.

The words were relentless, though, and HG was just as relentless in saying them, over and over until the cloying saccharine was almost too much to bear, until Claudia was sure that she would rather die than suffer another breath of it.

Finally, though, after a lifetime, HG pulled back, taking her body and her words with her, and Claudia spent far longer than she should have trying to determine whether the loss of the one justified freedom from the other. She liked the physical contact, the solid warmth, that sweet tangibility that she drowned in. She liked it, and she wanted it to stay... just... just not with all those words.

“Darling,” HG murmured, then, and Claudia could tell that the next words would actually have a purpose... or, at least, more of one than those that were supposed to make her ‘feel better’. “Are you feeling well enough now to perhaps retire to bed?”

Claudia didn’t know. She really, really didn’t, and the strain of trying to decide – the terror of making the wrong judgement call, of screwing up and making everything worse than it already was – made her head throb like it was trying to crack itself wide open. What if she said ‘yes’, that she was okay to move, only she wasn’t and ruined the bed sheets? Would HG hate her for the damage? But, then, what if she said ‘no’, that she was still feeling bad, only she really was okay? Would HG then resent her for keeping them in the bathroom without a good reason?

“I don’t know,” she managed miserably, after far too long spent debating it and trying not to black out. “I don’t know anything. Don’t make me think, HG, I can’t. I can’t think, I can’t...”

“Oh, Claudia...” HG sighed, cutting off the rambling train-wreck before it had a chance to derail itself. “Darling, it’s not so complicated a question as that. Nobody will blame you, or judge you, or think less of you, either way.

“But what if I get it wrong?” Claudia mumbled.

“There is no ‘wrong’,” HG told her firmly. “Claudia, darling, this isn’t an examination. There are no incorrect answers or grading curves. All we want – all that matters – is for you to feel as comfortable as possible.”

Claudia whined again, low and miserable. “I don’t care,” she said, kind of hoping that HG wouldn’t hear her, or else that she would somehow fail to notice how pathetic she was. “Don’t wanna think. Can’t think. Hurts to think.” She leaned in, seeking some of the physical contact that she’d been denied, and smiled dizzily when it was freely given, hands and body pressing up against her in all the places she needed it. “Can’t you decide, HG? Please?”

“All right,” HG said kindly, and Claudia remembered a nanosecond too late that the compassion was actually almost more unbearable than the effort of trying to think for herself. “Very well, then, darling. If the decision is mine to make, I think you would be more comfortable in your bed than here on the cold floor.”

Her bed did sound nice, Claudia thought in spite of herself. It sounded safe and comfortable, warm and cosy, two things that she so very much wanted to feel. Here, she was cold and sick, the bathroom tiles like shards of ice against her skin. Her bed was warm and familiar. It was a place she knew, a place she liked, and the deliriously deluded corner of her mind – the tiny part that still wanted to believe all this might be real – knew that if she could just get there, if she could just crawl under the covers and stay there forever, she would feel better.

But still, she worried. Her stomach still lurched and churned, threatening danger with every breath she took, and her head ached under the strain of panicking about it. She didn’t want to lose it again, and she didn’t want to ruin her bed. Most of all, though, she didn’t want HG to see it and be disappointed in her.

“You won’t...” she managed, tremulous and frightened. “You won’t... like... hate me if I...?”

“If you...?” HG echoed blankly, and Claudia tried to gesticulate an explanation, but she was far too dizzy to move very much at all. Her futile not-even-flailing seemed to get the message across, though, and HG’s body twitched with realisation. “Oh, darling! No! Of course not!” She chuckled, light and kind, and feathered her lips across Claudia’s sweat-drenched brow. “I understand your consternation, darling, of course I do, but you have nothing to worry about. You’re not well, and you can’t possibly be expected to predict how your body will react in any given moment. You mustn’t feel so ashamed, or so afraid, of losing control over it.”

“But I...”

“Claudia.” HG sighed, but it was a sigh laced with empathy far more than impatience. “Listen to me, and listen well. If it happens, it happens. You will find no judgement from me, or from anyone else. You have my word on that, darling.”

She sounded so honest – so raw with sincerity – that Claudia felt the spark of tears spill over into actual cries. All of her emotions were so close to the surface in this wretched state, so dangerously close, and it took so little to set them off. In the back of her mind, she could hear her healthy self laughing, mocking her for the weakness, but she could no more control her emotions than she could her body, every part of her rubbed so raw that it was more than she could do even to remember who she was.

HG held her close while she cried, her arms too tight, too perfect in too many ways, until the little whimpering sobs eased up into hiccups. Finally, seeming to trust that Claudia was at least under some kind of control – if only for the moment – she leaned back. She kept a hand at her back, though, strong and comforting, and through the haze of tears, Claudia saw her studying her face.

“Sorry,” she mumbled sheepishly.

“Nonsense!” HG cried, as though even just the thought of an apology was a source of great disappointment to her. “There is no shame in giving voice to your emotions, Claudia. You would do well to remember that.”

For a beat or two, neither of them spoke. Claudia tried to heed her words, to lessen the shame flushing through her, hotter even than the fever. She wanted to believe her, she truly did, but she couldn’t think through the fog smothering her mind or the tempest raging in her body. It was all wrong, everything she thought and everything she felt, and not even HG could make her see it any other way.

She seemed to realise that, though, and to understand it, because she didn’t push. Claudia couldn’t make out the details of her face, could barely make out the shape of it at all, but she could feel the sorrowful sympathy pouring out of her, the ache to make her feel better coupling violently with the knowledge that she couldn’t, that nobody could, that the pain Claudia was locked in couldn’t be fixed by words or embraces or the promise that it was all right to cry.

She got that. Of course she did. HG got everything. Always, every time, she just intuitively understood. Maybe that was what made her a genius, Claudia thought dimly. The way that she could understand everything, even when she really didn’t want to.

And so, because she knew, because she understood, she moved on. And, because she couldn’t do anything, because this was all that she had left to give right now, she took Claudia with her. Away from the moment, away from the impossibility of her words, away from the tears that still filled her with such shame. Away from everything, and into something new and old, the promise of familiarity and warmth and bed and home

“So, Miss Donovan...” she said. “Shall we get thee to thy boudoir?”

It was the perfect opening for a witty retort, but Claudia couldn’t think of one. She couldn’t think at all, or speak, or breathe. And she definitely, definitely couldn’t stand.

She could scarcely even sit up, and even that only with HG keeping her upright, so just the thought of having to stand up under her own power ( _what power?_ ) was enough to make her legs shake beneath her; no doubt they would have given out, had they actually been supporting anything. HG didn’t seem to mind, though, and Claudia felt the room tilt and pitch as powerful arms lifted her bodily from the ground. Such strength, and such softness too, HG supporting her where she could not support herself, cradling her close and careful, like she was the most precious thing in the whole wide world.

The world itself, such as it was, was not nearly so kind to her. It rocked all around her, rough and stormy, the very worst kind of seasickness, and she buried her face in the crook of HG’s neck to try and block it out. The arms around her tightened, fabric on skin, and both vibrating with sound as the words started up again, all sweetness and promises, and Claudia couldn’t figure out whether that or the rocking was the more unpleasant.

Neither of them lasted very long, though, and she was grateful for that. As quick as HG was to insist that there was no shame in a loss of control, Claudia couldn’t help thinking she would feel quite the opposite if she found herself on the receiving end of it. Within moments, though, it was over, the rocking and the murmuring and everything, and she was being deposited on what she knew was her bed, the crisp familiarity of tangled sheets pulsing in rhythm with the stifling heat of too many blankets. Her body cried out its joy as she at last came to rest... and yet, for all that she could barely breathe for the relief of blessed stillness, she found that she missed the solid comfort that came with being nested in HG’s arms.

“How does that feel?” HG asked from above, pulling the blanket up, over her shoulders, a cocoon of too much warmth and too much protection and too much, too much, too much.

“Too hot,” Claudia complained, wriggling restlessly.

HG chuckled, then obligingly removed it. “Better?”

“Mhm,” Claudia mumbled weakly, though it wasn’t.

The dishonesty must have been really obvious, because HG made a weird little clicking noise in the back of her throat, like she was upset that Claudia felt she couldn’t tell her the truth.

“Are you quite sure, darling?” she pressed, soft but pointed.

Though she didn’t have the strength to voice her irritation out loud, Claudia gave a petulant little whine, her natural rebellion against anything that she saw as a challenge rearing up and making its presence known. She hissed squeakily, and tried to roll over, to turn her back on HG and her bitter-tasting sweetness, but the effort of trying was greater than the power that she had to see the task through, and the end product was that she just flailed futilely in place, mortified.

“Claudia,” HG said, the smile obvious in her voice even as she tried her best to hide it. “Would you like some help with—”

“No!” Claudia growled. She could feel the delirium tugging at the edges of her mind, rising with the temperature, searing at her thoughts. “Stop trying to be helpful. Don’t want help. Don’t need help. Stop it. Just... just...”

HG chuckled again, but this time the sound was gilded in sorrow, a quiet pain deep enough to make Claudia’s chest hurt. “Very well, then, darling,” she said. “I shan’t try to be helpful any more. You can take care of yourself, I have no doubt, and it’s quite rude of me to insert myself where I’m not wanted.”

“Good...” Claudia muttered defiantly, like she really was the one calling the shots in this, like HG really was submitting to her instead of just humouring her in her semi-conscious haze of would-be resistance. Not that it really mattered, anyway, because whatever reasons HG cited for letting it happen, Claudia had still won (because she was the best, and HG was powerless against her _prowess_ ), and she celebrated her victory by letting the siren’s song of the pillows drag her head down, heavy eyelids following suit.

“Are you tired?” HG asked, compassionate but far more careful in voicing it this time.

“No,” Claudia replied, exaggerating her moodiness. Then, because she knew that she couldn’t fight the looming thrall of exhaustion, and that any attempt to deny it would only end in more humiliation, “...shut up.”

She didn’t know why she was being so sharp, so obnoxious and bratty, when all that HG wanted was to make her feel less sick and miserable and awful, but her mind simply wouldn’t let her take comfort from this place – this world that she was trying so hard not to believe in – without sabotaging it. It was automatic, reflexive, an inherent something deep inside her, the part of her soul that couldn’t take any sort of kindness without resisting and fighting, kicking out at it with all she had.

It was because she knew the cost of kindness. She knew it well, because she’d learned it well. She’d known its touch, felt its pull, let herself drink deep of its sweetness. But that was only half the story, and the other half was not so kind or sweet. Accepting kindness, Claudia had learned, was to accept comfort, and to accept comfort was to depend upon its giver. And she knew – she _knew_ – that, as soon as she did that, as soon as she surrendered herself to the affections of someone else, they would leave her alone and in pain. And the pain would be worse, so much worse, so much more unbearable, for having their loss added to it. Claudia could handle being sick; in her body or her head, she could handle it. She always had before. But letting herself listen to HG, heed her compassion, absorb what she was telling her... that would be the end of her. When this world fell apart, when all that was left was the real one, cold and empty and with no Warehouse and no HG to hold her or whisper those things, she would have nothing. And she would be lost.

Taking kindness, she knew, wasn’t just weakness. It was doom. It would be her undoing, letting herself be cared for, and to care in kind. She knew that... but she hadn’t expected it to hurt this way too. She hadn’t expected it to cut at her, this unfair cruelty, this obnoxious brattishness, the way she was treating HG. She hadn’t expected the pain to surge in her now, too, twisting impossibly inward until it was a dagger pointed at her own heart, accusation alight like fire along its edges, shimmering with blame and hatred, screaming with the ring of heat on metal, telling her over and over again that she was the reason HG felt so helpless.

“Claudia...” HG murmured, apparently sensing the conflict rising up within her. “Darling...”

It wasn’t a chastisement, her voice too soft and gentle (too _understanding_ ), but it lit the fuse in Claudia just the same, the powder keg of regret igniting like a bottle-rocket in her chest and exploding out in all directions.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, suddenly overcome by the need to not upset this woman whose arms felt so strong and wonderful when they were wrapped around her. “I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m saying or... or... or anything, HG. I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, HG, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m...”

“Claudia!” HG said sharply, hands tender but firm at her face, forcing her tear-blurred eyes upwards to meet her own. “Claudia, sweetheart. Hush. It’s perfectly all right. I understand completely. You are frightened and feel as though you’re not in control or yourself or your emotions. It’s perfectly all right, darling, and you have absolutely nothing to apologise for.”

To resist the empathy would have hurt even more, and so Claudia accepted as much of it as her body could take without expelling it again. “I hate this,” she forced out, every inch a child, teeth clenched together and chattering in spite of the searing heat. “I hate it, HG. I hate it.”

“I know, darling,” HG sighed, soft but strangely vehement, and her fingertips grew tense and angry against Claudia’s jaw. “I hate it, too.”

Neither of them said anything after that, HG seemingly caught up in the maelstrom of her own emotion and Claudia simply too weak to speak at all. The fatigue she’d been so quick to deny was catching up on her with staggering speed, and she knew that the next time she let her eyes drift closed, it would take more strength than she possessed to get them open again.

But bad things happened when Claudia let in the darkness behind her eyelids, skittering nightmarish things, and she should have known better than to let herself forget that.

Sleep was not a friend to her, even at the best of times. There were too many broken pieces of her past, too many twisted-up corners of her psyche; she had lived through too much for her mind or her soul to ever be clean, and her dreams were diligent in reminding her of that. Like her psyche, they were often twisted up and broken into pieces, and like her mind and her soul, they were just as often tainted. She couldn’t escape those parts of herself, the fractured blight that her life had left to fester within her, and when she slept was when they took their hold.

In sickness, of course, it was even worse. She was already teetering on the precipice, staring fearfully down into the chasm, the gaping black void that separated what was real from what was not, and when the thick fog of semiconsciousness crept silently down over her, obscuring what tiny slivers of reality – this one, or that? she couldn’t tell! – that she’d managed to cling to, it was like the ground had shaken beneath her feet, and she found herself hurled, helpless and hopeless and alone, right into the heart of the abyss.

She could hear voices, faint and distant, like scrambling scratches across the back of her mind, scoring out scars and marking out patterns that part of her knew she should recognise. It was familiar in that screwed-up way that only dreams could be – sights and sounds and sensations all screaming out for her to recognise them, clamouring for attention, and she unable to pin down anything at all beyond the fear that tore gashes all through her. Too much, but still not enough.

The world forged itself from abstract shadows, shaping the intangible into something that she could almost make out – stark white walls and glaring bright lights – and Claudia could feel the intent thick and rich on the air, the desire to help, even before the voices sharpened from the edges inward, the echoes lifting themselves up (and up again, forever) until they were no longer just sounds but something almost like clarity, a soft-spoken hum, sickeningly soothing, asking if she was all right.

Something in the question felt wrong, tasted alien on her tongue as she repeated it for herself. They weren’t supposed to be _asking_ whether she was all right, a corner of her cried, plaintive and hopeful. They were supposed to be _telling_ her that she was, saying the words over and over again, forcing her to hear them even when she didn’t want to. They were supposed to be making her believe, even against herself, that it was true, that she really was all right. They weren’t supposed to be giving her the choice not to be.

It was all so wrong. She was sure of it. The emphasis was in all the wrong places, the words inflected in all the wrong ways. It didn’t sound like it was supposed to. It was wrong, so very wrong, but she couldn’t remember what was right.

She didn’t know anything, couldn’t remember anything, couldn’t see or think, but she could feel the wrongness swell like a wave, ready to crash down over her, a predator waiting to knock her off her feet, to make her choke on salt and drown in it, to leave her gasping and half-dead, weak enough to be taken without a fight... and she understood, even without the power of rational thought, that when they said _“are you all right?”_ , what they meant was _“are you feeling crazy?”_.

In the instant the realisation formed, she tasted it. Chalk-like acid on her tongue, the revenant aftertaste of too many drugs, too many pills... of way too much medication.

Overwhelmed and breaking apart from the inside, she felt her eyes roll back in her head, and with them her consciousness, flickers of one world superimposed impossibly over the other. HG’s worried face, and then, instantly, the impassive eyes of a half-dozen doctors, and the symbiotic flashes of them both – so simultaneous but so far away from each other – made her double over, mind rent through with the confusion of it all. HG in one moment ( _“it’s all right, darling...”_ ), then, in the very next, a flurry of diagnoses from too many directions, not really stating anything and yet somehow making it clear that, when they asked her if she was all right, they were actually telling her that she was not.

She couldn’t think through the noise, so many under-the-skin questions, all glinting and flaring with danger in all the places that HG shone with safety and security. She didn’t want to believe them – didn’t want to hear them at all, much less actually listen to what they were saying – but her mind was rallying against her soul, and the parts of her that just wanted the truth was reminding her over and over and over that ‘wrong’ didn’t always mean ‘incorrect’.

The taste of acid chalk got stronger, pills solid at the back of her throat, everything suddenly sharper and more potent, but she forced herself to swallow them down because she had no other ideas, nowhere else to turn. It was all that she had left, the intangible hope that she could medicate herself out of this, the only chance she had to silence the clashing cacophony, to shut down the two worlds waging war inside her head. She was so afraid of losing the one that she loved, so utterly terrified, but the other was so much stronger, so much closer to what was real, and there wasn’t enough room inside her split-open mind for them both.

It didn’t matter at all that the drugs had never worked before, that even the best and the worst of them had never quite been enough to drown out the sanctuary that she needed so badly, that maybe the magical world she’d brought to life, nurtured into existence with her mind – that beautiful, tragic, imaginary universe where her brother was still alive and she had a home and a family and a life, the world that she would never deserve – didn’t want to be destroyed now it had tasted what it was to be real. It didn’t matter that she might not be strong enough to end it now. None of it mattered. She couldn’t let it.

“Claudia.”

She squinted blearily into the nothingness, the white walls coming into sudden sharp, inescapable focus. “Mm, yeah.”

“You know that world doesn’t exist, Claudia.” The words were unassuming – almost kind – even as they tried (just like they always did) to take her safe place away from her. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed, the lie tasting even more terrible than the drugs did. “I mean... I want to. I want to believe it...”

“That’s good.” The approval warmed her, flared white hot, seared like sunshine in her stomach. “That’s a good start. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know,” she heard herself confess, slurred and so very terrified. “I don’t know what’s real. I don’t... I don’t know what I am...”

The air shifted. She couldn’t make out the face, couldn’t see anything at all, and so she clung with feverish desperation to the voice, the only thing in this place that might be human. “Of course you don’t. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

There was something like compassion there now, but it was all wrapped up in something calloused and clinical. It was nothing at all like HG’s unguarded gentleness, the soft-spoken saccharine, the promises and words that had been so suffocating. It was all noise, a humming rhythm of facts and figures, statements wrapped in questions, and Claudia ached in spite of herself to hear HG’s words, the sweeping lyrical prose, the gift that she had so resisted before, whining for the want of them.

“Claudia...”

“I’m sorry...”

“You can’t keep pining for these things, Claudia. You’ll never be free from your delusions if you keep embracing them. You have to want them gone. You have to _try_ , Claudia.”

“I know.”

She tried to close her eyes, but all she could see was that world. Myka, trying to smile but always a little too tense, like she didn’t know what to do, how to handle someone like Claudia, like she was a puzzle, a Rubik’s Cube that needed putting together only Myka didn’t know the right method. Pete, laughing and grinning, so cool and so easy, like everything in the world came so naturally to him, arms spread wide as he shared his jokes and himself, like Claudia was designed to fit there. Leena, always so calm and beautiful, never saying very much at all but always making it count, looking right into Claudia’s soul like she could see all its darkest secrets, and loving her in spite of them. Artie standing over her, shaking his head in disapproval, demanding (in that faux-gruff voice of his) to know why she was wasting her time on such things as dreams when she should be working.

...and HG. Amazing, genius, perfect HG, telling her (not asking, but _telling_ , again and again until it was all she could hear) that she was all right, that it was all going to be all right, that she was brave and strong and resourceful, and everything within Claudia – heart and soul and body and mind – ached to believe it, but there were too many drugs inside her now, and she felt too sick.

“Claudia.”

“I know!”

The voice sighed. Disappointment, but nothing like Artie’s. “It’s perfectly natural to want to feel safe, dear... but there is no room in the real world to indulge such fantasies. It’s for your own good to let them go. You have to wake up.”

“But I don’t...” She swallowed, tried to think through the haze and the confusion. “I’m not...”

“Wake up, Claudia.”

Her eyes snapped wide open for just long enough to find and catch HG’s, to gulp down air from the empathy she saw in them, to breathe in deep of the comfort they offered, to let herself pretend that she really was real, that she really did care, that _someone_ did... and then the wave crested and broke over her again, a force of nature too powerful to fight all by herself, and she was dragged back into the depths before she had a chance to do anything more than breathe.

The ground – the floor or the bed or wherever the hell she was now, she couldn’t really tell – was unnaturally warm, enveloping her from underneath, and she curled up as tightly as she could, trying not to tremble too hard. “Help me...”

“You have to help yourself, Claudia. You know that.”

“I can’t!” she cried, helpless. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

And this... this wasn’t like the Warehouse at all. It was nothing like it, and this voice was nothing like HG’s. Back there, it would have been okay. It would have been okay for her to feel so helpless, to be so frightened and so unable to do anything. HG would have accepted the weakness in her, even when Claudia refused to accept it in herself; she would have held her where Claudia couldn’t hold herself, would have breathed for her when she couldn’t breathe, would have called her ‘darling’ and told her she was all right, would have taken care of her, even when she didn’t want it (especially when she didn’t want it... more and more, the more she claimed she didn’t care). She would have been like Joshua, would have given her everything she had, all the love and compassion in that whole imaginary universe, even as Claudia whined and complained and rebelled and resisted, arrogant like the brat she was. She would have turned the world upside down to make her feel better, just because she cared.

But here, in this place with these people, those faceless voices... all they did was watch and judge, study and diagnose, shrouded in their fog of reality, hiding behind the drugs and the delirium, safe behind their wall while Claudia beat her own head against it. They lined her stomach with drugs that did not work, filled her head with promises of a world that could only offer pain, reminded her heart that it didn’t deserve to be cared for. They tore her apart, broke her mind and then put a band-aid on it, and she just wanted to get away. She just wanted to go home...

They knew her here, though. They knew her mind, knew all the places it was broken up and in need of repair. (Of course they did; weren’t they the ones who’d broken it in the first place?). They knew the state of her soul, the parts of her that would never, could never, be clean. (Of course they did; weren’t they the ones who’d helped to stain it, the mark of this place scrawled like permanent marker all over her?). They understood her, understood the innermost workings of a mind so shattered by a world so cruel. Even if it was their world, the cruelty their own as much as anyone else’s, they understood. And maybe... just maybe... she couldn’t be blamed for taking some solace from that.

Still, though, she couldn’t be what they wanted her to be, and that hurt too. It hurt because it meant that she was weak, because it meant that she was a disappointment, because it meant that she wasn’t strong enough or brave enough to survive in the real world all by herself. And it wasn’t because she was sick, as much as HG and Leena and all the others out in the Warehouse wanted her to believe it was; she wasn’t naïve, wasn’t nearly so stupid as to buy all that crap just because it made her feel a bit less awful.

Wasn’t that why she was here, after all? To escape from those delusions, however safe and sweet they were? To break away from the castle of clouds that she’d built up around herself, like a small child hiding in a fort made out of pillows? Of course it was her own damn fault. All of it. The plain and simple fact was that she just wasn’t freakin’ good enough. This world was where she belonged, and its pain was what she deserved.

“Claudia.”

She clenched her jaw, and willed herself to show something. If not courage, strength, and if not strength, then at least some kind of insight. Something to show that she was still human, that she was still alive, that there was still hope for her to accept her fate for what it was, to accept this purgatory as her true home.

“I can’t...” she said again, wishing that they would believe her. “I can’t. You have to help me.” It wasn’t exactly courage, or even strength, but she did the best that she could with what little insight she had, and wrapped it around herself like a cloak. “You’re supposed to be helping! Isn’t that why I’m here? You’re supposed to help me!”

Whether that was true or not, she couldn’t really remember. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be helping at all; maybe she was beyond help, too far gone. Maybe they were just meant to be keeping her from hurting herself. Wasn’t that what people did when someone was too crazy to help? Keep them in places like this, strap them down and pump them full of crap to keep them sedate? And yet... and yet... they were here, and they were real, and so surely – surely! – it was better to ask them for help, to beg and plead and cry if that was what it took, than to turn back in on herself, to run and hide once again in the world that she was supposed to be breaking away from. Surely _that_ would make her worth something in this hollow place. Surely that would show them that she could be helped... surely it would... surely she...

“You don’t want to be helped. That’s your problem. Isn’t it, Claudia?”

And maybe that was true once, but it wasn’t any more, and she had to make them see that. “I do now,” she said. “I don’t want to feel like this any more. I can’t... I can’t... I... I just want it to stop. Please. Help me.”

“You know perfectly well what that entails, Claudia.”

She did, she was sure, but she couldn’t recall. There was a panic-like feeling scratching at the back of her mind, sharp little claws trying to warn her about something, but she didn’t know what or why, and she couldn’t remember anything at all. All she knew was that she was sick and scared, that the world she loved wasn’t where she belonged, that none of the people she loved were real, that nothing here would ever look half so beautiful as them... that the world, the life, the existence she wanted was not the one she deserved.

“I don’t care,” she said, but the words came out a quaver. “I don’t care, just make it stop. Make me stop wanting it. Make me forget. Make it... _make it stop_. Please. Just make it stop.”

“Are you sure?” The words were calloused, mocking.

The claws scratched harder at her mind, more urgently, and Claudia opened her eyes. Looked up, so sure for a fractured heartbeat that the face she saw belonged to HG – her words and her smile, her quiet strength and solid compassion, the Warehouse reflected in her eyes, so bright it was blinding – and she knew. She knew that she had no choice, that no matter how great the danger was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than aching for those things that would never be real. Nothing could be worse than that, and she couldn’t bear to feel the thrall of it tugging at the edges of her soul, drawing the strings of her heart so tight that they snapped right there in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said, barely able to breathe, much less speak. “I’m sure. I am. I don’t... I don’t want to want them any more. I don’t want to need them.”

“It will hurt.”

“Everything hurts!” she cried, a deranged laugh crawling across the surface of her tongue, swallowed down in one gulp, just like the pills that kept her mind strapped down. “The whole freakin’ world hurts. It all hurts, everything hurts, and you can’t... you can’t make it hurt worse than it already does. It’s not possible. So please... please...”

“All right.”

It wasn’t until the moment was on top of her that she remembered she _did_ know what it entailed, what she’d just consented to. Oh, how completely she knew. But, of course, by the time it hit – the realisation punching like a hammer into her chest, cutting through the frayed revenants of her heart and shaking through every part of her – it was far too late.

They didn’t strap her down. Didn’t hold her in place, didn’t force her to do anything. Maybe they knew that she wouldn’t struggle. Or, worse, maybe they knew that, even if she’d wanted to, she was too damn weak and too damn scared to try.

She felt it all, but she couldn’t see. She could sense the shift in the air, the world turning white-hot and electric all around her, felt what was happening but without true awareness. It was like she was suspended in gelatine, like even the broken parts of herself – the parts that didn’t work at all – were struggling together to protect her from what this place was about to do to her. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t anywhere near enough. It would never be enough, _could_ never be enough. And yet, still, it tried, everything in her all coming together, screwed-up and twisted, damaged and destructive, straining against its very existence just to keep her safe.

But it couldn’t protect her. It could conceal the faces here, the stark colourless walls and impassive eyes, but it couldn’t hide what was happening, or what was about to happen.

The sharp sting at her temples, points of contact biting like a chill where her skin was still so hot, and the fear flooded her almost before she even realised what it was. She wanted to cry out, to sit bolt upright, to reject this thing before it had a chance to take her... but she couldn’t move, and even if she could have, she had already agreed to let it happen. And it didn’t matter at all that they’d chosen not to restrain her, because she was frozen in place all by herself, her body betraying her even as it fought to keep her blind and numb.

Electrodes, pressed tight and held carefully in place, and she knew what came after that, knew how it would feel even though she’d always been able to resist it before... she’d always been strong enough to resist _that_ , if nothing else. The drugs, the questions, the walls and the empty faces, she’d never stood a chance against. But the electrodes, she’d fought, and she’d won. She’d always been able to beat them. Always.

Until now. And yet, somehow, she knew exactly what it would be like. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did. She knew how much it would hurt, how much damage it would do, how completely it would break her. She knew what it was, how close to the edge she must have been to even think of consenting to this, how completely she had given in. She knew what was going to happen to her, what she had _allowed_ to happen... and she was more scared now than she had ever been.

“Brace yourself.” They must have known that nobody could brace themselves for that, but still they said it anyway.

She tried to sit up, to protest, to take back the consent she’d given, torn from her as it had been, ripped from the bleeding wound where her sense of reason had once been. She tried to stop it, to break free before she was taken, but she couldn’t. She’d already strapped herself to the rocket; she couldn’t climb down from it now just because she’d suddenly realised it was about to be shot to the moon. All she could do was lie there on her back, trying to see through the haze that surrounded her, to at least meet the faces of those that would do these things to her, to try and make some kind of contact with something... even if it was only her nightmare manifest.

Dimly, she heard the humming, static and pressure building up all around her, the air crackling with something that was neither a promise nor a warning but wore the colours of both at the same time. Alien energy around her, untouchable and unfathomable and everywhere. Electricity, hot and white, danger arcing like lightning at the edges of her mind’s eye, terror lancing her chest and tearing through what little was left there.

She felt sick. She was so scared that she actually felt physically sick, violent and wretched, and it was only when the static hum became a whine – high and threatening and dangerous – that she realised it wasn’t just a product of this moment. It wasn’t just the fear taking hold, burning up the pills in her stomach and bubbling like acid; it was real and physical and it was actually going to happen. ( _Again_ , a little corner of her mind pointed out, but she couldn’t remember what it meant or where it had come from, and it didn’t matter just then anyway). It was actually going to happen, and nothing – not even _this_ – would be enough to stop it.

The electrodes grew colder, ice-wet against the sweat on her brow, and in the instant that she felt the very first flicker, her body lurched upright.

“Claudia.”

The spasm was fleeting, a momentary splutter of bile and mostly-water, but the scream that chased it went on and on and on, spiralled out of control in less than the time it took to shape itself, and took her down with it. The world tore itself open in front of her, and it was all HG, HG, HG...

“ _Claudia_.”

“No...” She caught her breath, gasped, rattling and fluid-filled. “No, no, no... please, no... please, no, please... please.”

“Claudia. Darling.”

And it was definitely her, definitely HG, because, even though she couldn’t think or breathe or move or see... even though she couldn’t see anything at all, she could see her face. It was right there in front of her, all perfect lines and impossible Victorian beauty, and it was HG. It could only have been her. Nobody else was so ethereal, and nobody else told her it was all right like that, those soft edges and the depthless passion behind it. Nobody else made her want to believe it like HG, nobody else meant it like she did. Nobody.

“...please, HG, please...”

“It’s all right, darling. I’m right here... but you must calm down.”

She knew that, but it was more than she was capable of. She wanted to, so desperately, but she _couldn’t_... and knowing that she was letting HG down – like she’d let Joshua down, like she let everyone down, every time – only made it worse, harder, the pain almost more unbearable than the electricity would have been, all the more excruciating for being emotional as well as physical. She howled again, or tried to, but all that came out was a tiny sob.

It wasn’t fair. The world that was safe wasn’t real, and the world that was real was not safe. Whichever way she went, she was wrong – living a delusion, or living in fear and pain. It was too much, all of it... too much, too much, too much... and she was so torn apart by everything, every part of her, every part of the world – this world and that world and every world that had ever been – that she couldn’t even scream, what little sound she managed cut short like a balloon shot through by a bullet.

“Claudia...”

“No,” she whimpered again. The word was all that she had left now that she’d been deprived even of he screams, and even that barely managing to break free from her, little more than a shuddering half-breath. It wasn’t enough, was barely anything at all, but it was all she had. It was the only thing left inside her. “No more. Please. No more.”

“All right, darling. All right...”

HG sounded like she was in pain, too, like she was sharing every breath of Claudia’s suffering, and Claudia’s heart almost stopped completely to imagine that. It was her pain, her trauma, her psychosis. HG shouldn’t have to feel it too. Nobody should.

Why did people keep hurting for her? Why did she cause pain wherever she went? Wasn’t this the world that was safe, the world without pain? Wasn’t this the world of endless wonder, of artefacts and Artie, of time-travelling authors and dimension-hopping brothers? Wasn’t this her haven, her sanctuary? Why was HG hurting in it? Why was _she_ still hurting?

Everything was pain. Everything, everywhere. Every world, every life, every part. Everything, and it would never, ever end.

“Please... stop... please...”

“All right. Shh. It’s all right.”

And then she was engulfed, a warm body in the bed beside her, strong arms wrapped around her, needing the comfort as much as offering it – HG, HG, HG – and it all felt so real, _so real_ , but of course it wasn’t. HG wasn’t real. This world wasn’t perfect, but that didn’t make it any more real than it had ever been, and... and...

...and the realisation brought with it the brutal sensory memory of electrodes, how close she’d come to letting them take her, the sick truth that they were ultimately her only option...

...and, suddenly, she really did want to die, really and truly, to die and be dead like Joshua was, like he used to be, maybe like he still was. Because she couldn’t stay here, and she couldn’t leave either. She couldn’t hide forever in this world of make-believe, not when it was getting sucked into the undertow of pain and hurt... but she couldn’t go back to the real one either, not when all it wanted was to fry her brains, to burn her up from the inside and tell her it was all her fault...

...and it didn’t matter anyway, where she went – the imaginary pain or the real one – because whatever the hell she did, wherever the hell she went, whichever world took her for its own, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. _It didn’t matter_ because everything hurt, both worlds and everyone in them, and whatever happened, it didn’t matter, because she would never win.

And still, through all of that, HG held her. And still, through it all, she said it was ‘all right’. Just like she always did, even through her own pain, over and over. It was all right, Claudia was all right, everything was all right. All right, all right, all right.

Only it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Nothing was ‘all right’. Nothing at all, and why couldn’t she see that? Why wouldn’t she just make it all stop? Why wouldn’t _anyone_? Was Claudia really so awful, so far beyond saving, that she deserved to be damned to this, to live and breathe the pain and the fear and the confusion, the not knowing, to sweat and sleep and drown in it, whether it was real or not? Was this all there was for her in any world, the memories and the madness? Was this what she deserved, fever and trauma and nightmares? Was this her existence?

Why? Why wouldn’t it stop? What had she done that was so terrible? _Why_?

“HG.” The name was rough, but the voice was hers.

“I’m here, Claudia. I’m right here, and I’ve got you.”

“Please.” She swallowed, and buried her face in the perfect curves of HG’s imaginary shoulder, both their bodies shaking with shared pain. “Please.”

“Of course, darling. Anything you need.”

“Please,” she whispered, biting down hard on a sob that was bigger than she was, wishing that it could choke her. “Please, HG... please...” She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. Could only _feel_ , and everything she felt was pain. “...please let me die.”


	12. Chapter 12

“She really didn’t want to come?”

“For the sixty-ninth time, Pete...”

About half a second too late, Myka realised that that probably wasn’t the best way to get Pete Lattimer to pay attention to what she was saying. Already, he was giggling like the overgrown two-year-old that he was. And, given that they’d only been on the plane for ten minutes, this didn’t bode well for the rest of the journey.

“You said sixty-nine...” he smirked, as though he needed to clarify what was so mindlessly amusing, and Myka willed herself not to slam her head against the window until she lost consciousness (or, better still, to slam _his_ head against the window until _he_ lost consciousness and she was left in blessed peace and quiet).

“I swear to God, Pete...”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, holding up both hands. “It’s kind of weird that Miss ‘O England, Country Of My Heart’s Desire’—” Myka didn’t ask how he, arguably the most illiterate human being she’d ever met, had any familiarity with obscure British poetry, not least of all because she rather suspected the answer would begin with _‘Well, there was this chick...’_. She did glare at him, though, and he huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine... it’s kind of weird that _HG_ would wanna stick around in crappy Univille after Artie finally gives her a chance to go back home and prove herself and all that funky jazz. Y’know, especially after last time, what with you and Artie, and the fighting and... everything.”

He trailed off a little weakly, and Myka could tell that he was trying his hardest not to think too hard about that, not to dwell on the tension that had been rife between his friends over this, and the effect it had had on Claudia, even before everything had gotten so much worse.

She sighed, not even trying to hide her own wistfulness. “I explained this already,” she reminded him. “She wanted to stay and take care of Claudia.”

Though this was not news, Pete sobered a little. “We all wanna stay with her, Mykes. She’s kind of a big deal to all of us. Doesn’t stop us doing our jobs.”

“It’s different for her,” Myka explained, though she already knew she wouldn’t be able to make him see it. She’d barely been able to see it herself, even, and it had only been Helena’s speech, her unrivalled way with words, that had made her see the light. Pete was not nearly so literate, or so easily enlightened, and trying to make him realise would just be a waste of breath for them both.

“How?” he asked, as if on cue.

She shook her head mostly because she couldn’t really add anything. Even if she did try, even if she laid down the whole thing, every last word, she knew that Pete wouldn’t get it, that he wouldn’t understand. And that was no fault of his, she knew; it was simply beyond him. Far better, she decided, for them both just to drop the whole thing (as they had done sixty-eight times already), than to try and fail, and both end up getting pissed with each other.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said at last. “But she gave up going back to England, proving herself to Artie, everything. She gave up everything that mattered, so she could be there for Claudia. Shouldn’t that tell you enough?”

Thankfully, Pete seemed to wise up and realise that he was chasing a dead-end street, and grunted his acknowledgement. He distracted himself by noisily munching on his packet of complementary in-flight peanuts, and then not-so-stealthily stole hers. Myka, for her part, didn’t object, content to let him amuse himself, and, once he was done stealing every available food source within a two-foot radius, he turned his attention to the in-flight entertainment system.

For her part, Myka was simultaneously glad for and troubled by his occupation with the cheerful 8-bit rhythm of old-school Tetris; though it gave her the blessed peace and solitude she wanted so much, it also left her alone with her thoughts. And that definitely wasn’t a good thing, at least not now, after everything that had happened. Still, though, she supposed all the guilt and self-blame and sorrow was better than trying to justify Helena’s choices for the seventieth time and knowing perfectly well that he wouldn’t understand even if she tried it a hundred more. Sometimes, for all the introspection it brought, silence was the best option.

It was about four in the morning, local time, when they touched down in London, and it was only after they’d collected their bags and were on their way to the museum (no hanging around in hotel rooms this time, it was far too important) that Myka realised how much she’d missed this last time. For all that she’d wished and hoped and longed for Helena to be the one snagging and bagging and tagging dangerous oddities with her, as much as she ached to forge that kind of partnership with her, she hadn’t realised until just now that she had missed Pete too. She hadn’t thought about it, but it rang out clear in her head now as she watched him check his Tesla and give her a nod and a wink and a grin that maybe she’d also missed having him at her back.

In a lot of ways (most of them really annoying, admittedly, but even so), Pete and Claudia were very similar. They both acted far younger than they were – in her case, the product of a broken childhood, and in his, of far too much testosterone – and they bounced off each other in a way that, every now and then, sometimes kind of made Myka a little jealous. They got each other, connected easily and effortlessly and without a second thought, and, when it wasn’t irritating as hell, it was actually kind of endearing to watch them, to just sit back and bask in their natural rapport, the way they got along and the way they got each other.

And yet, for all the ways they were so very much alike, out here in the field, they were vastly different. So much so, in fact, that Myka almost forgot that, in the comfort of the B&B, they were always so alike. Where Claudia was awkward and anxious, trying too hard and so far out of her element it almost seemed as though she’d choke on the unfamiliarity of the oxygen, Pete was right at home, comfortable and cool in a way that could only have come from years of experience. He’d been here before – and, if not exactly _here_ , wherever that happened to be on any given mission, then a hundred other cities in a hundred other places, telling the same old story a hundred times over, albeit set against a slightly different backdrop.

Pete knew the ropes. He knew what being in the field meant, what was expected and how to achieve it, in a way that Claudia simply didn’t. Maybe she would, one day, but for now she was still so very young and much too inexperienced. And Myka hadn’t realised until just now, as they sped towards the museum in yet another rental car, just how lucky she was to have someone so experienced, someone like Pete Lattimer at her back so often. Regardless of her feelings about Helena, or her desire to see her out in the field and work alongside her, to let her be a part of the team too... exclusive of any of that, and in his own right, Pete really was a damn good partner. 

Of course, it didn’t hurt that they both had a really good reason to keep their heads in the game this time. As much of an infant as he could be sometimes (for which, she mused, read ‘usually’), Myka had seen time and time again that Pete was perfectly capable of stepping up to the plate when he was really needed. More, though, she knew that the juvenile rapport he shared with Claudia, that irritating immaturity they took so much pride in annoying Myka with, would only make it all the more personal to him now. This wasn’t just a mission, not even a really important one. This was for one of their own, and even Pete wouldn’t let himself get side-tracked from that. Whatever Myka may have felt about other things, there was no-one in the world she’d trust more in this situation than him.

“How was she doing?” he asked, out of the blue, as though he’d been reading her mind. “I mean, y’know, when you left her. And HG. How was she doing?”

Myka winced; she hadn’t failed to notice the way that Pete had kept his distance from Claudia, more even than she herself had. He’d left her and Artie in Claudia’s room, left them to their hot-headedness and their conflict, and she hadn’t seen him for a long time. She didn’t know for sure, but she was fairly sure he hadn’t been to see Claudia at all, and she wondered if he was as unexpectedly squeamish as she was. He’d been the one to find her, after all, and Myka remembered vividly how shaken he had been when he’d brought her home. He’d looked like he had seen a ghost, like the young woman shaking in his arms was someone he’d never seen before. Myka had only seen him look that haunted once or twice before, and it had thrown her.

So maybe he wasn’t so different from her, at least in this. Maybe it was just as hard for him to see Claudia in pain, to see her sick and scared and so unlike herself, as it was for Myka. Maybe he was beating himself up for not being able to be there, just as she was hating herself for having run away.

Honestly, she was actually a little surprised he hadn’t asked the question earlier. She supposed he’d been psyching himself up to hear the answer, probably preparing for the idea that it might be bad. Pete, she knew, for all his generic stupidity, was intuitive on a level that was matched only by the likes of Leena. He knew when something was wrong, and he knew when a situation was worse than it looked on the surface... and the fact that he had taken so long to ask how Claudia was made Myka think that maybe he already knew what the answer would be. Still, though, she found herself bracing, squaring her shoulders and steeling her nerves for the kicked-puppy heartache that she knew would paint itself like spilled ink all over his face when she said the words aloud and made them real.

“She’s not good,” she said, refusing to sugar-coat it for him even as her instincts cried out to shield him from it, to keep at least one of them safe from the unpleasant reality. “She... she’s really bad, actually. So, uh... the quicker we find this artefact...”

“...the better,” he finished unnecessarily, and uncharacteristically did not take his eyes off the road, even to look at her.

“Right,” she affirmed, and used the silence that followed to try and block from her memory the sight of Claudia on the floor and Helena with her arms wrapped hopelessly around her. It hurt too much to think of it, and not in the way that would lend itself to better hunting, but the way that would cripple her completely if she allowed herself to indulge in it. 

They parked up a few blocks away from the museum, and it was a testament to the urgency of the situation that Pete didn’t even try to pretend that he knew where they were going. He didn’t step out of line, didn’t try to show off, didn’t let himself get distracted by tourist traps or souvenir stand. He just followed, silent and set-jawed, content to stay a couple of steps behind and take his cues from Myka. For her part, Myka moved by instinct, retracing old steps with precision and diligence in vain the hope that they would trigger her, shake loose a memory of something she’d forgotten, even as she knew that it was impossible, that her memory didn’t work that way; if she couldn’t remember something, she knew perfectly well that it was because it wasn’t in her memory at all, and even the greatest of prodigies couldn’t pluck a memory out of nothing... but still, she tried. She tried everything she could, whether it would work or not, because she had to.

Within minutes, they were back inside, the now-familiar walls now taking on a completely different tone, the beige and off-white tainted now by the torrent in Myka’s heart. She didn’t stop to study them, though, instead guiding Pete with as much efficiency as she could muster to the storage room where they’d found the artefact, where everything had gone so well and then so badly, where Claudia had fallen.

Predictably, if frustratingly, the room was completely empty.

It took Myka an unforgivably long moment to remember that they were, in fact, in a museum, and that (as a general rule) display pieces in museums usually ended up... well, on display.

As convenient as it would have been for her and Pete just then, she supposed she could understand the institution’s desire to show off its acquisitions (grudgingly taking into account the fact that they had kind of probably procured them in the first place for that purpose place), but understanding the technicalities of it didn’t stop her from cursing under her breath. Even without the added ‘entertainment’ of having Pete in train, with his tendency to touch things he really shouldn’t, she really wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of trawling a whole museum for one artefact, with a window of just a couple of hours before the place opened to the public and their shot at efficiency was effectively blown to hell for a whole goddamned day.

“Huh,” Pete deadpanned from beside her, appraising the empty room and tilting his head with exaggerated surprise. “No wonder you found the other one so fast. Don’t got much to choose from.” He snorted a laugh, but it was wan, and Myka could tell he was just trying to keep his mind off less painful things. “Man, you’re so Artie’s favourite; he gives you all the easy jobs.”

Myka rolled her eyes, too impatient to even try and humour him. “They’ve moved it,” she muttered snappishly. “We need to get looking. If this place opens for business before we find it, we’re screwed until tonight, and I don’t know if she—”

She cut herself off, refusing to think it at all, much less say it aloud.

Pete, it seemed, had no intention of hearing it, either. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go there, Mykes. Just don’t.”

And so she didn’t. She just squared her shoulders, pushed the worst-case scenario to the back of her mind and tried to forget about it, willing herself to just focus on the task at hand. She had let herself get distracted the last time she was here, and that was why she was here again now. She’d been distracted, and she’d screwed up. The weight of it hung heavily upon her, an albatross around her neck for all to see and know and judge, and she had no intention of seeing that folly repeated again. Not now, and not ever again.

“Come on,” she hissed at Pete, and led him through the labyrinthine corridors of the museum with all the adopted airs of someone who actually had some idea of where they were headed.

They found the place, more by luck than judgement (and maybe aided just a teeny tiny little bit by all the giant signs pointing them towards the _exciting new Tudor exhibition!_ ), within about fifteen minutes. Had she been in a more objective frame of mind – had this been a standard mission, or had the exhibition been already on display the last time she was here – Myka had no doubt that she would have approved of how well-organised the place was, but, as things stood just then, she just couldn’t bring herself to care about something so trivial, at least not beyond how helpful it was to their particular cause. Sure, it was well-designed and delightfully well-presented... but frankly all she cared about now was how easy it would be to trawl through its composite parts to find what they needed.

The jewellery-type things were all in glass cases, of course, and Myka knew (from far more experience than she would ever admit) that it was more difficult to break into a display case without attracting attention when the cases in question were the centrepiece of a room that seemed to have been explicitly designed with ‘attracting attention’ in mind. Even though the place was still empty (for the time being, at least), Myka felt horribly exposed as she worked on the casing, and she couldn’t help acknowledging the way that Pete seemed to feel the same way, Tesla in hand, ready for use in a heartbeat if it was needed.

“You found it yet?” he hissed at her, after about four seconds.

Myka rolled her eyes, and did not dignify him with a response. 

She had memorised the look and shape of the mark burned on Claudia’s skin, the patterns and contours that would no doubt tell her when she was looking at the thing that had branded it, but she’d learned time and time again that the trouble with historical artefacts (even the ones that weren’t actually _artefact_ ) was that, most of the time, they all looked pretty much the same. It was their historical context that made them valuable, she knew, not their uniqueness.

Ultimately (admittedly, somewhat to Myka’s chagrin), it was the display itself that pointed them in the right direction.

There was something to be said, she mused idly, for a country obsessed with its own history but too stubborn and lazy to actually do the work of learning it. Mostly, in this case, it was said on cue cards printed in neat typeface, explaining in quite admirable detail exactly what each of the pieces was.

“Hey, listen to this...” she said after a few silent minutes, as her eye caught the caption of a particularly gaudy-looking necklace.

Pete, with one eye still on the door like any good agent’s should be, peered curiously over her shoulder. Though she was (mostly) sure that he could read perfectly well – or, at least, acceptably –for himself, Myka still read the caption on the card aloud for his benefit, and found to her own surprise that his indignant grumbling was actually kind of soothing.

“‘Given by Henry the Eighth’...” she read in a hushed half-whisper, “...‘as a token of his affection, to his paramour, Anne Boleyn’—”

“Paramour?” Pete echoed, sounding disgruntled. “That’s so not a real word. Sounds like... I dunno, like one of those so-called ‘bands’—” He mimed quote-marks around the word, as though she wouldn’t have been able to figure out his feelings on the subject solely by the tone of his voice. “—that Claud listens to and refuses to admit they suck when she’s playing ’em cranked up to eleven at two in the morning, and then whines when I tell her to turn it down because I don’t ‘understand the emotional impact’ or whatever. Which we all know is bull, Mykes, right? Because I am so down with all the hip emo music...”

Myka sighed. “Yes, Pete, you’re very emo. Can we focus, please?”

“Fine, fine. Okay. Whatever. Go on.”

“—‘given by Henry the Eight to his paramour, Anne Boleyn’...” she went on, pausing to shoot him a well-deserved glare, and pointedly ignoring the way that he stuck his tongue out in return, “‘...when she was suffering from a mysterious and unexplained fever.”

Pete made a perplexed little grunting sound. “Seriously? No sixteenth century gossip on what it was?”

Myka rolled her eyes. In truth, she was no more impressed than he was, but she had no intention of letting him know that. She was quite justifiably proud of her track record when it came to knowing all the things that he didn’t (which were numerous and varied), and she had no intention of letting that record get spoiled now. Besides, she had a resident expert back at the B&B just bursting to talk about the oddities of this quaint little country, and Myka certainly wasn’t going to complain about the opportunity to watch Helena’s face light up as she talked about the home that she seemed to miss so much, even if it was just to say that she too had nothing to say.

“But it sounds right, doesn’t it?” she pressed, neatly sidestepping Pete’s question and focusing on the issue at hand. “I mean, ‘mysterious’ is kind of our speciality... and she’s definitely got a fever.” She twitched, then forced that thought to the back of her mind, already reaching out a gloved hand to take hold of the offending article before Pete had a chance to say anything else on the subject. “Guess there’s one way to find out for sure, right?”

Maybe she was developing a sixth sense about these things, or maybe being worried beyond all semblance of rational thought just made her a better agent somehow. She wasn’t entirely sure which one was more likely, or if either was even likely at all, but regardless, she definitely knew. She knew that this was right, that the thing in her hand was, if not _their_ artefact, at the very least _an_ artefact. Like Pete with his vibes or Leena with her auras, she just knew.

Pete wasn’t so sure, though; she could tell. In the split-second after she dropped the thing into the static bag, but before the telltale flash of sparks that told her she was right, she caught a twitch of anxiety flicker like radio static across his features. Maybe he was having a bad vibe day, or else he just wasn’t focused like she was (knowing him, that was more likely), but the uncertainty was tangible, whipcord tight and rippling through every muscle in his body.

But, for herself, Myka was calm, completely and perfectly, and much more confident than she had any right to be. It just felt right. Whether it was instinct or just the cock-eyed optimism of blind faith, she had no idea. She just _knew_.

The quick flash of purple sparks confirmed it, anyway, less than a moment later, and Myka politely pretended not to notice the way that Pete let out the fearful breath that he’d been holding, unvoiced doubt let out in a low exhalation. “Did we get it?” he asked, breathlessly reverent.

“Looks like it,” Myka replied, not wanting to say it with surety until it was confirmed by the ones that mattered, and fumbled clumsily for her Farnsworth.

It took a second or two for her to remember that Helena still didn’t have a Farnsworth of her own ( _smart move, Artie_ , she thought bitterly, _so very smart..._ ), and Pete quirked a bemused eyebrow when the realisation hit and she cursed under her breath. After a couple of minutes’ deliberation, she opted instead for a somewhat less-than-ideal Plan B, which consisted of calling Claudia’s cellphone and hoping for the best – firstly, that Claudia had taken time out from their baking shenanigans to teach Helena how to actually use a cellphone, and, secondly, that Helena would have foresight enough to answer it when it rang.

Blessedly, she did, albeit not until Myka was right on the brink of giving up. Her ID must have been flashing across the screen (though heaven only knew what kind of ridiculous nickname Claudia had given her), because there was no surprise whatsoever in Helena’s voice when she greeted her with a rather subdued _“Myka?”_

“Yeah,” Myka confirmed quickly. “Yeah, HG. It’s me.”

 _“Good...”_ Helena said simply; her voice was tight, choked and strangled, and, though she didn’t give anything away through what she was saying, Myka could hear the wrongness in her tone and felt the worry in her chest flare up into a sharp crescendo. _“Please tell me that you and Agent Lattimer have met with success on your travels.”_

She didn’t elucidate, and Myka forced down her unease for long enough to answer the question. “I think so,” she said carefully. “We found something artefact-y, anyway, and it seems to fit.” She took a breath, braced herself, and watched as Pete’s eyes darkened with anticipation. “How’s she doing now? Any change?”

 _“Within the last twelve seconds, you mean?”_ Helena asked; she was trying too hard to maintain her usual cool sarcasm, and Myka knew it. _“It’s admittedly somewhat difficult to say.”_ She exhaled, soft but audible, and there was a definite hitch in the noise. _“Myka...”_

“What is it?” Myka asked, before she could stop herself.

Helena hesitated. Her breathing was laboured, strained, and Myka wished that she did have a Farnsworth so that she could see her face and try to read her expression; she hated guesswork at the best of times (possibly she’d been known to occasionally throw a particularly frustrating crossword puzzle across the room if it had too many oblique riddles), and this was definitely not the best of times. In the distant background, she could hear little whimpering cries, and supposed they were probably coming from Claudia; her heart was torn, then, caught between sympathetic pain at hearing her so distressed from so great a distance, and bone-quaking relief at being able to hear her at all, the sounds bringing with them evidence that she was still alive, that whatever was so troubling Helena, it wasn’t _that_.

 _“...I’ll keep you updated,”_ Helena said at last, and Myka could tell that that wasn’t what she wanted to say at all, but the line went dead before she had the chance to press her.

Sneaking out of the museum and getting back to the car without arousing suspicion was easy. Sitting there in the shotgun seat for an indeterminate amount of time with nothing to do but feel the weight of the static bag in her pocket, mocking her, and wait for Helena to call back (if Claudia had even taught her how to dial) was most decidedly not. The distance between two places had never felt so vast, Myka thought sadly, and even surrendered – in a fit of impatient desperation – to indulge Pete in a round of the licence-plate game, just to pass a little of the time.

His heart was no more in it than hers was, though, and the through-the-motions feints at entertaining themselves faded out in a sorrowful splutter after a few worthlessly wasted minutes, silence descending briefly on them once again, until—

“Hey, Mykes?”

The sobriety in his tone was almost a little chilling, and Myka found herself swallowing nervously, actually having to prepare herself before responding to him. “What is it, Pete?”

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” he asked, and his voice was actually shaking. “I mean, like, actually _okay_?”

He sounded so much like a little boy in that moment, fearful and trying far too hard to act tough and brave, so hard that his efforts had exactly the opposite effect, making her worry so much more than if he hadn’t tried to hide it at all. It touched Myka’s heart to see that in him, and her chest flared with empathy for him, in a way that it very seldom did for the overgrown pre-pubescent.

“Of course,” she said, though she knew he wouldn’t believe it any more than she herself did. “She’ll be great. She’s tough. You know that.” She forced a grin. “Like bamboo, remember?”

“Yeah...”

He closed his eyes, breathing deep and slow, and tapped his fingertips in restless rhythm on the steering wheel. Myka wondered if he was thinking back, remembering the moment he’d found her after she’d run away after breakfast – practically a day past by now, though it felt like so much longer. She found herself thinking back, then, too, remembering in vivid photographic detail how freaked out and frightened Claudia had been when he’d brought her back home... how freaked out and frightened _Pete_ had been, which had actually distressed Myka even more because it was Pete, and he didn’t get that way. She remembered it all, how awful Claudia had looked, and how quickly she deteriorated. Apparently, that really was where his mind was at, because he cut through the silence again, barely audible now.

“God, Mykes.” Myka didn’t want to hear it, but she didn’t interrupt, because she was a good partner, and his friend, and she would be there for him just like he would be there for her if he knew how terrible she felt right now. “She... she was so screwed up, y’know? So sick, and so scared. I just...” He groaned. “I’ve never... in all the time we’ve been here, y’know? I’ve never felt so... so...”

“...helpless?” Myka offered, softly and without any kind of judgment, because the word was hers as much as it was his.

“Yeah.” The confession clearly cost him a great deal of effort.

Myka touched his shoulder, his arm, offering wordless support without even having to think about it. Pete grunted his acknowledgement, then turned to look at her, right at her, with eyes that knew her every bit as well as hers knew him.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, and his voice was suddenly shot through with clarity; she knew what was coming next, and not just because she’d heard it before, the intent rippling through him like a solid thing, the need to deflect his own sorrow onto something else, to be there for her, to be strong for someone where he couldn’t be for the one he wanted to. “You know it wasn’t really your fault, right? You get that?”

Though she’d been expecting it, even prepared as she was, her throat closed up. “Sure,” she lied, knowing that he wouldn’t buy it. “Of course I know that.”

“Mykes,” he sighed, seeing through her just like she knew he would. “It could’ve happened to any one of us. Claud’s just... she’s _Claud_. It doesn’t matter how close you watch her – if she’s gonna hit her head or fall over or whatever, we both know she’s gonna, no matter what you or me, or anyone else does.” (Myka was appreciative enough of the sentiment to not tell him that he really should have said _‘you or I’_ ). “It’s just how she rolls.”

“I was distracted, Pete,” she said, crossing her arms. “Artie was right. I should have paid more attention. I should have—”

“Should’ve what?” he demanded, nothing if not dogged in his incredulity. “Wrapped her up in Styrofoam? Tied her down with bubble-wrap? Left her in the hotel room, locked all the doors and barred all the windows?” He shook his head, actually mustering a weak laugh. “We both know she’d just bust her head open anyway, tryin’ to break out, and then you’d blame yourself for that too.” He huffed out a sigh, sad but also acceptant, and shrugged. “Accidents happen, Mykes. To Claud especially, but to all of us. Whether we like it or not.”

“Yeah...” she said, echoing his hollow use of the word.

“Hey, hold up...” he added quickly. “I’m not saying you’re totally blameless or anything. C’mon. You and Artie have been totally jackasses about this whole thing, and Claud got the worst of it. It’s not her fault that you dig HG, and it’s not her fault that Artie doesn’t.... and you’ve been playing her like she’s a chess piece or something, just to make some kind of stupid point about the whole thing, when – hey, hey, hey! – HG didn’t even really care that much anyway. I mean, _jeez_ , Mykes...” His jaw tightened when she opened her mouth to argue that point – to inform him that, actually, Helena cared a great deal about what was being said about her, and in every way other than to her face – but he swallowed down his own aggression and, in a rare display of maturity, focused on the wider issue. “You really wanna blame yourself for something?” he went on, keeping his voice low and even. “How ’bout you start with that?”

It was a fair point, not that Myka would ever admit it (at least, not out loud where he could hear it). “If he’d just listen to—”

“I don’t care,” Pete shot back, throwing up his hands as best he could in the limited space of the car to cut her off. “And neither does Claud. God, Mykes, you think she cares who said what about who, or who went where with whatever, or why? Noooo! All she wants is for you guys to quit fighting.” He sighed again, then softened, sadness overpowering the anger that was so often close to the surface when he was upset like this. “Look. I do get it. You and HG, and how you want to look out for her and have her back and all that epic teen-movie sorority stuff. And yeah, Artie’s still pissed about all that crap with MacPherson, and he’s taking it out on your BFF ’cause she’s the one who iced him, and you don’t think that’s fair. And maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t. I dunno. But I do get it, Mykes. I do.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, the word out and hanging on the air before she could stop herself.

He wasn’t done, though. “But Claud doesn’t. All she gets is that you guys are fighting all the time, and she’s stuck right in the middle of it all. Artie’s using her to get back at you, and you’re so pissed and distracted you’re letting him, and you’re both so caught up in your stupid head-games with each other, you don’t even stop to think about how badly it’s screwing with her. And she’s so... she’s so...” His voice cracked. “And, hell, it’s not like any of this crap even has anything to do with her anyway! You’re screwing with her and using her and tearing her down and making her listen to your whining and your fighting and your bitching and all your hate, and it’s not even about her!” He took in a breath, and Myka wished that she could remember how to do the same. “That’s all she knows... and that – _that_ , Mykes! – is what she cares about.”

Unable to keep holding his gaze, Myka turned to look out of the window. The hammering of rain against the glass did little to help her blink back the tears; if anything, it made them worse, the sorrow threatening to spill over and join with the downpour outside, and she let herself wish for a moment that she could drown in it. “I guess we’ve let her down a lot lately, huh?”

“You’ve not ‘let her down’,” he insisted, complete with air-quotes, but there was something in his voice that said he was kind of thinking the same thing. “Mykes, she’s...” He trailed off. “She’s like a kid sometimes. We both know she’s smart... like, wicked smart... but she’s so young and she’s had to deal with so much just to get where she is, and she doesn’t deserve any more of it. She doesn’t. And you’re supposed to be her big sister, and Artie’s... well, we both know what Artie is, as freaky as that is. We’re supposed to be her _family_ , Mykes. You and me and Leena and Artie. We’re the only one she’s got now her brother’s in Switzerland or whatever, and it’s scary.” Myka couldn’t argue with that; it was. “But she’s not like us. You know? She’s not... she’s not so well-adjusted.”

Despite herself, Myka snorted a real laugh at that. “You did _not_ just refer to yourself as ‘well-adjusted’,” she sputtered.

“So not the point!” he whined. “You know what I mean! Claud’s different. She doesn’t know what it’s like to come from a place that’s normal, not like we do. Hell, we’re probably the closest thing to ‘normal’ she’s ever had in her whole life. And that’s cool, right? But it means she that needs us. She needs you, and she needs Artie, and she needs you to not be tearing each other apart right in front of her.”

“We’ve not been...” she started, because it was her reflex reaction to argue with him, but she realised before the words were fully formed that he was actually kind of right.

“You have,” he replied, because apparently it wasn’t enough to see that she got it. He had to hammer the point home as well. “You totally have. And it’s been killing her.”

Myka sighed again, biting down as the familiar whirlpool of self-loathing begin to bubble up in her again. She was right to blame herself, she realised; even if it wasn’t for the right things, or in the right places, or however it was most eloquently put (Helena would know, but she wasn’t here; she was back at the B&B, doing what Myka should have been doing herself), it didn’t matter. And, however hard Pete tried to sugar-coat it, the fact was that she _had_ let Claudia down. She hadn’t been the mentor she’d wanted, hadn’t been the big sister she’d needed, hadn’t given her any of the things that she should have. She hadn’t been there for her, hadn’t looked close enough to see what Pete seemed to see so easily: the parts of Claudia that needed her, and why. She had been locked up in her own thoughts, her own priorities, her own emotions, obsessively fixated on Artie and Helena and everything that was wrong with a situation that should have been so beautifully perfect, and it didn’t matter that she wasn’t allowed to blame herself for being distracted during the mission itself. She understood now, like Pete did. The disasters that had followed – Claudia getting sick, Myka’s guilt, Helena having to take on the role of mother for a second time – were just symptomatic of an apparently bigger issue.

“I should talk to her,” she mused, talking mostly to herself now. “Apologise, make it up to her, I don’t know. Something.”

Pete shrugged again. “She’s cool, Mykes. And smart, too. She’s not gonna blame you just ’cause you got your head in some other place right now, and she’s sure as hell not gonna blame you for getting her sick. Hell, she probably doesn’t even really blame you for fighting, either, no matter how bad it cuts her up to have to sit there and take it while you throw that stuff around all in front of her.” He cracked a tough little grin, and she couldn’t quite keep her lips from quirking to mirror the gesture. “But don’t think for a second that just ’cause she doesn’t blame you for it, that somehow means it doesn’t hurt. ’Cause it does, Mykes. It hurts like hell.”

“I know,” Myka said, though she was really only just starting to truly understand it; she had never stopped to look at Claudia’s face in those moments, so caught up with righteous fury on Helena’s behalf, throwing all the fire and brimstone she had right at Artie, so locked in on all the things that she was always so sure she needed to be focused on. She’d never once stopped to see who it was hurting.

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “You do know. So just... don’t do it. You don’t gotta make some kind of big epic gesture to bring it home. You don’t gotta go take her out to dinner and a movie, or sneak her wine coolers behind Leena’s back, or pretend you care when she starts talking tech and won’t stop. You don’t gotta do nothin’ like that, Mykes. Just _don’t do it_. Just stop taking all your dumb crap out on her, and stop making her part of stuff she shouldn’t be part of. That’s all she wants.”

“Yeah...” Myka said, once again. This time, though, it was so close to sincere, she could almost taste it. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Yeah, yeah...” he shot back. (Apparently, the almost-but-not-quite moment was over now). “Don’t start getting all sappy and chick-flick on me or nothin’. I don’t want your girl cooties.”

She didn’t, though she couldn’t deny that it was tempting, if only to get that self-satisfied smirk off his stupid face.

Nearly half an hour passed before they heard anything further from Helena, and when she finally did call back, the _“hello”_ was so cautious, so guarded and tentative that it was impossible to tell what she might be thinking. Even to Myka, who flattered herself that she understood Helena’s mind pretty well by now, her tone was inscrutable, and it did nothing to set at peace the tension that had fallen on her and Pete while they’d waited and waited.

“Well?” she asked, almost before the formalities were fully out of the way. “Did it work? How is she?” For about half a second, there was no sound from the other end, not even breathing, and that alone was more than enough to kill her patience. “HG!”

 _“Better,”_ Helena said at last, but something in her voice told Myka that she was only telling them part of the story. _“Her fever is definitely going down now. It seems... it seems that you were right about the artefact.”_

There was a ripple of something on the line, obscuring her voice, but Myka couldn’t quite figure out whether it was the product of a bad connection or of emotion. After a beat or two, during which time the whatever-it-was cleared up and dissolved, Helena pushed on, though the shakiness lingering in her voice was a far cry from the optimism in the words themselves.

_“She’s improving, now, in leaps and bounds.”_

She didn’t finish the thought, but Myka suspected she knew where it would have gone anyway ( _‘...at least, physically’_ ). And she knew, of course, that they would all have to deal with the implications of that (forever present in everything they did, the psychological fallout of whatever artefact had taken its hold on the world, however briefly)... but that would come later. For now, she knew – and she knew that Helena knew it too – what was really important was the fact that they had neutralised the thing that had made Claudia sick in the first place. The rest, they could – and would – handle together, all of them, just like they always did, no matter what the Warehouse threw at them... but neutralising the thing, taking away the real harm, had to be their first priority.

It wasn’t until much later, as Artie congratulated them via the Farnsworth while they waited for a connecting flight in a quiet corner of a run-down airport just outside of Madrid (because, apparently, nothing said _‘good job’_ quite as well as a non-direct return flight, thanks boss), that she realised just how much like him she was becoming. Find and neutralise, then deal with the fallout. Do the job, then worry about the consequences. Focus, Myka. Focus. So much more worrying than the realisation, though, was the way she didn’t find it disturbing.

They didn’t often clash, she and Artie, but when they did, it was cataclysmic. And, in the wake of all of this, this business with Helena, both of them so passionate and yet so completely on opposite sides of the spectrum, she couldn’t help wondering if maybe that was why. Maybe it wasn’t that they were different at all, but that they were the same. Maybe that was why they clashed so violently, why their arguments spiralled so far out of control the way they did, why they both became so blind to everything else. Because they were so alike, because they felt and thought and worked and lived in the same way.

Even about this, she realised. They felt different things, of course, but in fundamentally the same way, and therein lay the issue. Myka, loyal to Helena, the former villain she was so sure could make good... and Artie, loyal to the memory of his one-time friend, the man who would have ended them all. And part of her was furious at him for that, for throwing in his lot with the one person who didn’t deserve it... but the rest of her, slowly but surely, was coming to realise that she would have done the same thing in his place. In her own way, she supposed, as attached as she was to Helena, she already was.

It wasn’t the same. Not even close. But they felt the same things, even so. And maybe that would be enough, when this was all over, to help them find some common ground.

“See?” Pete said, when Artie finally stopped talking and let them go. “No sweat. She’s gonna be fine. We’re all gonna be fine. And – hey, hey, hey! – you notice how he didn’t even sound like he hated you? Gold stars for everyone, right?”

Myka chuckled, but the pressure at the back of her mind wouldn’t quite let her relax enough to actually laugh like he so clearly wanted her to. “I guess,” she murmured, and knew even before the words were out that he’d jump on them.

“Mykes...” The name was a whine. “C’mon. We did good. Don’t wreck an awesome job by getting all _Myka_ about it.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” she demanded, unable to resist rising to the bait (and, she imagined, he knew very well that she wouldn’t). “You can’t just quote someone’s name as an adjective and expect it to make sense, Pete!”

“That!” he yelled, bouncing on his feet with excited triumph, and pointing with both hands. “That right there! _Myka_!”

“You can’t just make up a...” she started to protest, but she could tell at a glance that it would be a waste of her time; for all his maturity of the last couple of hours, he was still the same Pete Lattimer at heart, and he wasn’t going to listen to her. So, instead, she just threw up her hands.

“See!” he chirped again.

“Why am I even wasting my breath on this?” she sighed, the closest to surrender that he was ever going to get out of her. “Just shut up, you child. We’ve got a plane to catch.”


	13. Chapter 13

Clarity didn’t come as easily as a flash of sparks in a little silver bag.

It wasn’t as simple as feeling the heat of fever start to drop, or the gradual lessening of the sickness in her stomach, or the lifting of the cotton-hazed fog from around her mind. It wasn’t as simple as any of the supposedly straightforward things that were happening to her body, all pointing in glaring neon green towards recovery (or, if not actual recovery, at the very least a sort of recuperation). Nothing was ever so simple as it should have been; she’d learned that lesson too many times.

It wasn’t enough that she was getting better. Not when she wasn’t getting _well_.

The world was trying with all its might to reshape itself into what it was supposed to be, fighting to reforge the broken shards of what it had, to knit together the split edges of her mind into something whole once again. But the pieces didn’t fit. They couldn’t fit, would never fit with each other now. It could never happen. They were borne of conflicted concepts, alien places, and they could never coexist. Her mind was an impossible spectrum, thought instead of light, and its two ends could never come together; it was already split wide open, cut through with fractures and imperfections, and it couldn’t handle so much juxtaposition. The real world and the world of the fantastic, and it was bad enough that they’d tried to occupy the same space in the first place, that they’d tried to squeeze themselves both into her head at the same time. It was bad enough that she’d tried to have both – or either – at all; they were made up of such different things, so much time and space and existence between them, and they had to remain separate.

When she came back to herself, reclaiming some vague awareness of the physical world (even if she still wasn’t at all sure that it was the real one), the first thing she realised was that HG was in the bed with her. Part of her was quite sure this wasn’t news, that she knew about this, but it was such a tiny part and it didn’t stop the surprise from pulsing through her, shock and panic in near-equal measure vying for control of her fragile psyche. The room was unfamiliar, the world and everything in it, and so too were the arms around her.

She whined, gulping down the cool air and reflexively curling in on herself, burying her body and her face in the arms and the compassion that so engulfed her, drinking deep of the strength and the solace, taking it in until she couldn’t take any more.

“HG...” The name spilled from her lips before her mind could stop it, before her splintered thoughts could remind the rest of her that this wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She tried to say more – anything, she didn’t care what – but the name had used up all the energy she had in her, and there was none left for the words that mattered.

“Yes, darling,” HG said, the affirmation coming without hesitation, even as her voice wavered. She leaned back, barely perceptible, and Claudia saw the world reflected in her troubled eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Reflexively, Claudia opened her mouth to say that she was feeling bad (because that was all that she could remember how to feel, whether it was true right now or not), but the words wouldn’t come. Her vocabulary clouded, submerged underwater, and her head was still reeling from the lingering wisps of thick grey fog. She couldn’t make sense of anything, least of all herself.

“I dunno... I...”

HG exhaled. There was no disappointment or judgement in the sound; it wasn’t even a sigh, really, just a quiet kind of contemplation, and Claudia was grateful for that, but even so it was laced with something that sounded almost sorrowful. It lashed at her, whip-tight, cutting at the places beneath the skin that she couldn’t make sense of, carving a path right through her like she was made of nothing at all.

“All right, darling,” HG said after a moment, so gently that it almost hurt; even the softest of touches were raw and painful against an open wound. “That’s perfectly all right. You don’t have to know anything just yet. Just relax.”

Because she was nothing if not rebellious, even when she couldn’t see or feel or think, Claudia tried to shake free of her embrace and sit up. It was too difficult, though, and she surrendered in the end to just stay down. “I don’t need to relax,” she mumbled. “I don’t need to stay. I’m fine. I just... I don’t need anything.”

“Perhaps not,” HG said with forced lightness. “But you can’t deny that it’s the most sensible option.” She didn’t try to force the issue, perhaps knowing that any kind of pressure would be met with violent resistance; instead, she chose a more subtle approach, one that was, much to Claudia’s annoyed chagrin, irritatingly effective. “I myself would certainly opt to rest, in your position. And I’m certain Agent Bering would do the same. And, as they say, if the method is good enough for us...”

Claudia growled moodily, but didn’t argue. “Whatever,” she muttered, and let her face press against HG’s neck, dwindling warmth against cool curved skin. “You guys are lightweights.”

“Indeed,” HG said; she sounded like she was trying to be serious, or at least to _seem_ serious, but her voice was laced with laughter and didn’t sound very serious at all. “Claudia, darling, you really are the most endearing creature.”

Claudia whined. “Shut up.”

“As you wish...” HG smiled.

It was obvious, though, that she wasn’t going to. She’d be quiet for about ten seconds, and then start up again. Claudia knew it, knew that HG wouldn’t let her endure in silence for more than a few moments at a time. She knew it because she knew that HG knew her. She knew how she was feeling, even if she herself didn’t. She understood the twisted darkness wrapping itself around her mind, the grey fog turned to black smoke, not so thick, but all made up of wriggling tendrils and so much harder to pin down.

HG knew the dangers of leaving her alone in that, blind and stumbling, trying to grope her way free all on her own. She knew it, because she’d walked that path herself. Claudia knew that, though she was often too scared to think of it. She knew that HG had the same things inside of her, the same splitness, the same broken-up confusion, too many worlds in too small a space, and she knew the madness that came with it. She wouldn’t leave Claudia alone in that, even when she begged her to.

And, of course, barely a minute passed before she was talking again, and Claudia wished she could be grateful for it, but all she could feel was the rebellion, sharp like claws, digging into every part of her that wished it could be better.

“You’re going to be all right.”

It wasn’t like the eight thousand other times she’d said it; it was different, and it cut from a different angle, the gashes a different shape, the blood a different colour, the pain a different flavour. This wasn’t a shot at trying to convince Claudia of something that she so obviously didn’t believe for herself; it was a statement of fact, an offer of information, and as such, was hard to argue with. And Claudia so desperately wanted to argue – with everything, not just this. Everyone else was fighting, kicking and punching each other with their words, and they had no reasons; Claudia had a reason. She wanted to fight because she wanted the violence, the deafening clamour of aggression and dissent, the hot mess of entropy to drown everything else. She needed the conflict now, to pave over the cracks where she couldn’t think straight.

“Myka and Pete have found the artefact that was affecting you, darling,” HG went on. “They are on their way home with it now. All is well, or shall soon be.”

Claudia shut her eyes, not wanting to hear about artefacts or any of that fantastical stuff now, not with the memories of the other world (the one that still tried to tell her it was real) so fresh in her mind, so potent and so strong that she could almost taste the revenant of it, acid chalk on her tongue. 

“I don’t care,” she said, knuckles and fingers itching and twitching. “I don’t wanna hear any of that stuff, HG. I don’t care about anything.”

“Very well,” HG said. She would not give Claudia her fight, but she would give her something. “We don’t have to talk about this just now if you don’t want to. We don’t have to say, or do, anything at all. We can just lie here quietly, if you’d prefer that, and let you feel better in your own time. Is that what you’d like?”

“I don’t...” Claudia started to protest, and realised a moment too late that she didn’t know.

She didn’t care; she really and truly didn’t. HG could say or do whatever she wanted, and Claudia would not – could not – care. She was just fighting for the sake of fighting, lashing out just to prove (to herself so much more than to HG) that she was still capable of it, that there was still something left inside her that could still remember the taste of strength and righteousness driving her. Her mouth twitched, aching to say more, maybe even to say that (because this was HG, and she understood), but she couldn’t. All she could do was flail and thrash blindly and hope her fists caught something solid.

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Okay? Just don’t. I don’t need you to be like this, HG. I don’t... I...”

“I understand,” HG said, smooth and effortless, making it clear that she wouldn’t rise to any kind of bait, that Claudia should save her breath if she was looking for a battle, because she would not offer one. “Whatever you want, darling.”

And it was too much. She couldn’t keep fighting, couldn’t keep struggling, not when there was nothing there to fight against, not when the only other person in the room was yielding and letting herself be open to take without giving back. She couldn’t fight an opponent who just stood there and let themselves get hit, who jumped back up and thanked her for the bruises. That wasn’t a fight at all, and it wasn’t what she needed.

She couldn’t bear this. She was trying so hard, fighting so hard, but there was nothing to fight against, and no purchase to dig her fingers into. She was adrift, and HG was the ocean, holding her afloat, keeping her from drowning when, really, drowning was all that she wanted to do. She closed her eyes against it, and a whimper cut itself free from her.

“I want...”

“It’s all right,” HG said again, those hurtful, wonderful words. “Anything you want, Claudia.”

“I want to forget,” she sobbed. “I just want to forget, HG.”

“As do I,” HG sighed, and pressed her lips to the sweat-damp skin at her brow, cooler now but no less clammy. “However...”

Claudia sighed too, a wan-sounding echo of HG’s, and pressed herself further into her arms. It wasn’t enough that she felt better physically, that she was no longer alight with fever or churning with nausea or delirious with both, and the knowledge of that almost drove her back into the abyss. It wasn’t enough. She wanted it to be enough, so desperately. For herself, but for HG too.

HG, the one who had stayed with her, who had told her it was all right even when it wasn’t, who had held her and supported her, who hadn’t run away when she’d been sick or left her alone or asked her questions she couldn’t answer or yelled over the top of her head. HG, who had done nothing at all but tried to make her feel better. HG, the only one who had stayed with her, who had been at her side through everything, the only one who had tried to keep her grounded, keep her safe and almost-sane, even knowing that it was hopeless. HG, the one who had leaped head-first into her own pain because she thought it might make Claudia’s less.

She wanted HG to see her get better, wanted so badly to be as ‘all right’ as HG was still so sure she would be. She wanted to be enough, wanted to be healthy enough and all right enough and good enough, but she just wasn’t. Shades of the other world still lingered like shadows behind her eyes, distorting everything and making her struggle and fight against things that weren’t her enemies, making her want to be aggressive and unkind, to be anything at all if only it would give her back some sense of self, dark spectres tainting her mind and her soul, even now, and she couldn’t shake them off. She couldn’t hold herself here, in this place with HG and the Warehouse and the family that she loved so much, not with the memory still alive and raw. She wanted to. So desperately, she wanted to. But she couldn’t.

It didn’t matter that it was all the product of her screwed-up delirium, fever and sickness and sweat. It didn’t matter that she’d been so out-of-it that it was a freakin’ miracle she hadn’t started hallucinating elephants and giraffes and dinosaurs in the middle of the Warehouse. It didn’t matter at all, because she could still remember it – no, she could still _feel_ it – like it was real, like it was still there. The fear and the pain and the horror, all of it, still now, every part of it, so much worse than the fading memory of the rest, the heat and the sickness and the physical discomfort, the churning in her stomach and the chalk in her mouth, cool porcelain against her fingertips and shimmering tiles under her knees. So much worse than that, because that part was over and this was... this was so much more brutal, and so much closer to something important.

HG was patient, in a way that Claudia didn’t want to admit she appreciated. She didn’t push, didn’t demand or ask questions or insist on anything, just made quiet suggestions and made it very clear that they were just that, that Claudia was not obligated to heed any of them, that she understood when Claudia was resistant. It was so hard to rebel against someone like that, so difficult to make a mark on them, and ultimately, Claudia just gave up and let herself lie there quietly. Just lay back and relaxed, just like HG had said, even though she didn’t want to. 

“I want to get up,” she muttered, as crankily as she could muster.

She didn’t, really, but she knew that if she stayed where she was, warm and comfortable, she would slip back into sleep, and she didn’t want that. She was afraid, not ready to face the things that came with it, the dreams and monsters and shards of what might be reality... not so soon after the last time, not with her wounds still open. She needed to heal before she could go back there, needed to win a fight in this world before she could stand any chance of winning one out _there_.

Maybe that was why it felt so important to fight, she mused dizzily. Maybe she just wanted to beat someone or something, to tear out a victory, however small, and prove to herself that she might one day be strong enough to hold her own against the real demons. She’d never defeat them, she knew, not truly, but to go a full three rounds and still be breathing? She’d train her ass off just for that.

“You should give yourself some time to recover more completely,” HG said gently. As before, it wasn’t a command, simply a suggestion, kind and well-intentioned, and phrased in such a way that made it completely impossible for Claudia to argue with her, even with the gloves on and ‘Eye of the Tiger’ echoing through her overheated brain. “But if you’d sooner have some privacy, I could leave you alone for a short while.” She hummed, exaggerated thoughtfulness that was totally fake. “I’m sure you’re well enough to endure a few minutes by yourself, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, duh,” Claudia shot back, all false pride; she appreciated the gesture, the faith that HG was placing in her strength and her survival... but, for all her bravado, the truth was that she didn’t want to be alone now any more than she had when she was sick. Not that she’d let HG see that, of course, but she kind of suspected she knew anyway. “But whatever. I don’t care. You can stay, if you want. Y’know, if it’s too much effort to get up or whatever...”

She didn’t move or look at HG’s face, but she could tell that she was smiling just the same. “I think I will,” she said, all matter-of-fact and indifferent, and Claudia didn’t have to see the smile on her face to understand the meaning behind it. “For the present, at least. As you so aptly observed, I feel I’m rather too comfortable where I am.”

“Whatever,” Claudia said again, struggling not to be grateful.

They lay there for a few minutes before the pull of sleep threatened again, and the sound that escaped her when it did was nothing short of pitiful. She hated the weakness in her, hated it all the more for knowing that she should be over it by now – that she should be _better_ by now – but the fear eclipsed the shame so much that everything around her went dark, and she whimpered into HG’s shoulder like a little girl, pleading without words, begging her to do anything in the world just to keep her awake. She had to stay awake. She needed to.

Sensing her distress, HG’s arms tightened around her, protective but nurturing. “Do you need something, darling?” she asked.

Claudia bit her lip, willed herself to be brave and strong, to be like HG would have been if she were in the same place. HG wouldn’t be afraid of sleep, she knew. She was freakin’ HG Wells; she would never be weak enough to need help to ward off something so stupid as sleep. She’d be tough, she would push it back all by herself, stare it down and kick its ass and come out swinging. Claudia wanted to be like that so desperately, to be able to fight her own battles like she had when she was young, to fight and stay alive and survive, to beat her demons all alone, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t like HG, as badly as she wished she could be; she just wasn’t that kind of strong. She wasn’t any kind of strong at all, and she needed help.

But she couldn’t just ask for it, because then HG would see how weak she was, see it and know it and feel it down to her bones – she wasn’t consoling a kindred spirit, she was comforting someone small and weak and pathetic, someone who didn’t deserve the radiance she offered – and Claudia could not (would not) let that happen. Especially now. Now, when she was supposed to be better, when she was supposed to be ‘all right’ again, when she was supposed to be good and well and healthy and sane. She didn’t have the excuse of sickness to hide behind now, couldn’t blame it on fever or nausea or delirium. She couldn’t blame anything at all except her own pitiful mind, and she was so scared of what HG would think if she found out just how weak it was.

“Nothing,” she said, though it was exactly the opposite of what she wanted to say, and though she knew that HG would see through it as surely as if she’d spoken the truth in the first place. “I’m fine, jeez. Quit panicking just ’cause I breathe, or whatever.”

HG chuckled, and the vibrations sent sparks shimmering up and down Claudia’s spine, arcs of something that felt like electricity but didn’t want to fry her brains. It felt good.

“I wasn’t panicking, darling,” HG said lightly. “I was simply asking.” She exhaled; her breath was warm and sweet against the side of Claudia’s head, and in spite of herself, Claudia let out a shivery little half-sigh. “I know that you’re a strong, courageous young woman, Claudia. I’m sure that you don’t need anything, and that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself now that the danger is past. I have absolute faith in your resourcefulness. So please, darling, believe me when I tell you that I offer to help solely for the love of helping you.”

Claudia really, really wanted to believe her. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t believe anything.

“I’m good,” she said again, stubbornly. “I’m okay. I’m fine. I just...” She swallowed, shaky and unsteady, and felt HG shift in response. “I just want to get up,” she said again, because it was so much safer to say what she did want to do than to admit what she didn’t. “That’s all. It’s not a big thing. I just... I just wanna get up and get out of here. This place is gonna drive me nuts, HG, if I have to stay here. It’s gonna drive me nuts.”

The word reverberated mockingly in her head, shaped and repeated by clinical voices that never laughed but sounded so horribly cruel. _Nuts?_ , they echoed, the words like blades, cold and sharp against the pounding void behind her ribs. _It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it, Claudia?_

She groaned, burying herself deeper into HG’s arms, trying so hard not to whimper. “I gotta get outta here, HG.”

“Patience is not your virtue, is it?” HG remarked gently, clearly aware of the fact that she wasn’t really saying what she meant, but far too tactful to try and broach what she did. “Claudia, darling. You’ve been frightfully unwell. You gave us all quite a scare. For our benefit as much as your own, you should rest. Just think of poor Artie’s blood pressure if he found out you were wandering around just hours after...” She trailed off, as though just thinking about it was enough to send her back there.

Claudia didn’t want to go back with her, so she swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah, I know,” she replied. “I know it’s all for you guys, but I just...” She tried to swallow again, but her throat was too dry, everything in her rebelling against what she wanted it to be, like her body had decided, if it couldn’t fight HG, it would fight itself. “Forget it,” she sighed at last, and would have rolled stubbornly over if only she had the strength in her to move. “ Just forget it.”

HG sat halfway up, twisting her body at an impossibly graceful angle and bracing on one elbow as she reached across with her free hand to brush the loose hair out of Claudia’s eyes, fingertips lingering at her jaw. There was such tenderness in the touches, the look on her face, in every part of her, so much untouchable empathy, that every nerve in Claudia’s body cried out at the sight of it, her heart aching to reach out for it even as her mind strove to recoil from it.

“Oh, Claudia.” HG sighed, the sound coming from deep inside her chest. “Sweet, beautiful Claudia. Do you still believe that I don’t understand?”

“I dunno,” Claudia answered, realising only after they’d left her lips that the words had practically been a confession, that she’d effectually just admitted to having something deeper and darker on her mind, that she was unwittingly accepting what HG was offering, all of it, and the empathy too, the unconditional solace of her arms and her strength, the world-weary promises that it would be all right, everything, even with all the shame that they brought.

There were ghosts behind HG’s eyes when Claudia met them, and she felt the lead weight of self-loathing drop heavily into her stomach at the sight. She had put that look there, her and her pathetic weakness, and she couldn’t comprehend how the woman who looked so haunted, her own soul all cut open by Claudia’s pain, would be so eager to lend her aid to the thing that so hurt her. It didn’t make sense, and the confusion made her lungs burn.

“Darling...”

And now, all of a sudden, it wasn’t just Claudia who was being evasive, who was saying everything except what she was feeling, because HG was doing it too. The ghosts in her eyes were saying something so different, so completely removed from the simplicity of her endearments that even Claudia (by her own admission, not the most observant human being in the universe) couldn’t keep from noticing it. She was alight with it, blazing with all the words she wasn’t saying – the words that sounded nothing like ‘all right’, so dazzling that Claudia couldn’t see those words any more.

“What is it?” she asked, and tried to convince herself that she was asking out of actual concern and not just because she hoped that hearing HG talk about herself would keep her from having to do the same.

HG studied her, eyes dark and clouded, as though trying to gauge whether or not Claudia was healthy enough to hear what she wanted to say, to answer the question so clearly hot on her tongue. Claudia wanted to reassure her, to make the point that nothing was more likely to make her feel like a real person than being treated like she was one. Not like an invalid or a sick child, but like a Warehouse agent, like someone who really could take care of themselves, not just a dumb kid who wanted to hear it whether it was true or not. She wanted HG to believe what she told her, to treat her like she really did think she was capable, and not do that thing that grown-ups did to kids who were trying too hard to grow up too fast. She wanted HG to act like she trusted Claudia to look after herself, not just say that she understood.

After a moment or two, HG sighed, tangibly preparing herself. “Claudia, there’s no shame in being afraid of yourself.”

Claudia squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could silence the whine that tore free from her throat. “I’m not afraid,” she managed, though she didn’t believe it any more than she knew HG would. “I’m not _scared_.”

“Delirium can do terrible things,” HG pressed, acting as though Claudia hadn’t spoken at all, and the hopelessness in Claudia’s chest was suddenly lined with irritation. “Terrible, unspeakable things, Claudia. You and I both know that, better than either of us would care to admit. It can twist and bend a person’s mind into something a mind should never be, or send its demons to taint even the purest of souls. It can abuse and brutalise, destroy and corrupt... and believe me, Claudia, there is no shame to be felt in being frightened of that.” Her hands left Claudia’s face, and wrapped around her hands. “It would be more foolish not to be.”

The tears that pricked behind Claudia’s eyes were a surprise, and not a pleasant one, and she turned her face away before HG could see them. “I’m not frightened!” she insisted again. She couldn’t let HG see the truth. She couldn’t let the brokenness take them both. “I’m okay now. You said it yourself. I’m all right. I’m okay, HG, I’m all right.”

“Of course you are,” HG said. “I know that. But you have been unwell, darling, and suffered deeply... and I understand, far better than your other friends, that the scars left by such an ordeal as yours are seldom merely physical.” She swallowed, loud enough that Claudia didn’t need to see it to feel the intensity of the moment. “No-one should have to bear their scars alone, Claudia. And the ones that others cannot see so easily are often the ones most in need of their attention.”

“Yeah, well,” Claudia shrugged (or tried to; it wasn’t easy to shrug while lying down, and she was sure she mostly just looked like a spaz). “So I got another stupid scar. Who even cares? It’ll be in good company, and all the others can take care of it and welcome it into their little scar-shaped sorority or whatever. I don’t care about it, and neither should you.”

“But I do,” HG told her. “I care a great deal, darling.”

“Well, don’t!” she shouted, and she felt her control slipping. “Save it for someone else! Save it... save it for...” She was still trembling, and she hated herself for it, even as she bolted upright and turned her whole body away; she couldn’t face her, couldn’t look at her right now, this woman who was so insistent on sharing her burden. “Save it for, like, Myka. She’s your favourite, right? Or Artie, ’cause we all know he just needs a hug or something. Or save it for Pete, or Leena, or... or... I dunno, someone dumb enough to care back. Save it for someone who...” Of its own accord, her jaw tightened, tensed and clenched, hurting her teeth, and she choked on fresh tears, right on the edge of losing so much more than just her control. “Dammit, HG, save it for someone who matters!”

Behind her, HG’s breath caught in her throat, loud and rattling, and then she was taking Claudia forcefully by the shoulders, turning her back around until she had no choice but to meet the fire-engulfed ghosts alight behind those ageless eyes. “ _You_ matter, Claudia.”

It was crap, of course, but Claudia wasn’t feeling nearly good enough to call her on it. And, really, even if she had been feeling perfect, she probably still wouldn’t have, because she was still her, and HG was still HG... HG, in her bed, lying next to her and holding her and taking care of her and telling her – over and over again until the air shook with the force of it – that she was important, she was, she was, she _was_ , all the while shot through with so much passion, so much power, so much of everything, and... and... and oh God, no. No. Of course it didn’t matter how she felt; there was no way she’d ever be able to call HG Wells on anything.

“Shut up,” she mumbled instead, and of course it had the opposite effect, HG’s already-soft expression softening even more at the sound, and Claudia felt another whine bubbling up inside her as the air (already weighed down so heavily with emotion) trembled beneath the promise of yet more words. “Seriously, HG. Quit sayin’ stuff like that. I can’t... I’m not...”

This time, when HG sighed, it was with resolve and not sadness, the sound suddenly rough-edged and touched by a kind of anger that was so unlike her that Claudia actually flinched a little. There was something in HG now that hadn’t been there before, a kind of fierceness, a determination that made no sense, and this time, when Claudia raised her head to seek out the ghosts behind her eyes, there was nothing there but black.

“Claudia,” she said, and her voice was as dark as her eyes. “Nobody knows more intimately than I do the desire to keep our struggles within, to keep our darkest parts at a distance from the people we care about. Nobody understands better than I do the fear of not being good enough, or strong enough, or brave enough, or worth enough. And nobody – _nobody_ , Claudia! – understands more completely than I do how it feels when those fears, those struggles, those darkest parts rise up like cannibals and devour every last piece of what we thought we might have been.”

It was so flowery, so excessively dramatic, so _HG_ , and Claudia simultaneously hated it and found herself drawn to the rhythm of poetry. She hated that she wasn’t still feeling ill, that she wasn’t so lost to the haze of sickness and delirium that she could block out the words, or else fail to understand them. It was a lambaste on the very worst corners of herself, a rallying cry to the void where the best had once been, and Claudia just wasn’t tough enough to withstand it.

“Stop!” she cried, because that was the only defence she had, the childishness that she never quite managed to let go. “This is crap, HG! It’s all just crap!”

The almost-anger flared in HG again, potent and raw, furious, and she grasped Claudia’s jaw so forcefully that it actually physically hurt. It was a good kind of pain, the kind that would maybe leave a bruise. Claudia hoped it did. Bruises were good; they marked the place where pain had been, and branded themselves in testament to the fact that it had been real.

“There is nothing ‘crap’ in wanting your life ended, Claudia!” HG roared.

Claudia honestly couldn’t remember what the hell she was talking about; her memories were too hazy, blurred at the edges with the kind of bitter chill that she was afraid to brace against, much less actually gaze through. Had she wanted that? Had she truly? HG seemed to think so, and the tremors that still rocked both their bodies made it feel like it might not be so very far from the truth... but she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember at all.

HG wasn’t done. “There is nothing to be dismissed in a plea for death,” she went on, and the thought of what she must have said made Claudia feel sick all over again. What she must have put HG through... what she must have made her feel...

“I’m sorry...” she choked. “HG...”

“Don’t be sorry.” It was a command, an order. “You are crying out for help, Claudia, every inch of you screaming and sobbing for empathy and support and understanding, for someone to reach in and protect you from the darkness inside of you, and the only one who cannot see it is _you_. Your mind is crying for repair, and that will not stop just because your pride refuses to accept it for the truth it is.”

Claudia tried to reply, to tell HG that she was sorry, to say that she had been delirious, to say or do anything in the world if only it would make her stop... but HG’s grip on her jaw was too tight, the weight of her stare too heavy to resist, and Claudia was fixed in place, boneless and weak, like she was strapped down, and the memory of leather and electricity left her shaking.

“HG, I...”

But she couldn’t go on. And, even if she had been able to, even if she knew what she wanted to say, it didn’t matter anyway, because the moment was shattered a half-second later by the arrival of Pete and Myka, fresh from their travels and oblivious to the hell they’d just walked into.

They were clearly just arrived from the airport, bags still in hand, both tousled and obviously exhausted, and Claudia would have felt bad for them if she wasn’t just so glad to see them, to feel the spell of HG’s rage breaking just at the sight of Myka standing there. And so, without even stopping to think about the possible repercussions to her physical well-being, Claudia took advantage of the way that everyone was suddenly looking at everyone else – like they were all somehow afraid to look directly at _her_ , like she would infect them with her mystery sickness if they just caught her eye – and lurched upright. Well, mostly upright, anyway, but it was enough for what she wanted to do, and, without pausing to let her body remember that it couldn’t stand, she was up and off, catapulting herself like a projectile straight into Myka’s arms.

“Whoa!” Myka cried, thrown and confused in near-equal measure. “Hey, Claud... it’s good to see you too...”

Claudia clung to her like both of their lives depended on it, and Myka patted her awkwardly on the back, the tautness of her muscles making it clear that she was deeply uncomfortable with the proximity. More so than she usually was when someone tried to hug her, even, not that Claudia could blame her for that. She remembered that part, at least, albeit vaguely and through the hazy distance of sweat-soaked post-fever. What had happened the last time Myka had let Claudia get close to her, how she’d reacted, how badly she’d freaked out... hell, it was probably only due to surprise that she’d let her come close at all this time.

Suddenly, she felt awful; wanted to step back, to let Myka have her space, crawl back into bed and hide under the covers until she learned to just say ‘hey’ and wave like a normal person... but she needed the contact more than she valued her dignity, and, as much as she would have given anything to not make Myka feel uncomfortable and scared around her, she was so very desperate for her arms right now, for her distance and repression, for he sympathy that wasn’t empathy. Shame and humiliation, she was long used to, but she was not so comfortable with being alone, or this frightened.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Pete greeted, waving from a couple of feet beyond Myka’s shoulder. “You feeling like a new woman yet?”

The question must have been aimed more at HG than at Claudia herself, because she was quick to reply on her behalf. “She’s feeling much better,” she said, and, though there was no trace of the anger in her tone now, she didn’t sound half as optimistic as she should have.

“Good,” Myka said; she was clearly still a little uneasy, despite the reassurance, and was quick to take Claudia gently by the shoulders and guide her (or, more accurately, push her) a step or two back.

Claudia hung her head, taking the cue and retreating back towards the bed. “Sorry, Myka. I didn’t mean to... I mean, I wasn’t... I didn’t...”

“It’s fine,” Myka replied; her hands lingered briefly on Claudia’s shoulders, a peace offering of sorts, and she studied her face. “You’re really feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Claudia promised, the words tasting bitter, and turned to look at the bed so that she wouldn’t have to feel the weight of Myka’s eyes on her. “I’m okay. I’m good. I’m doing much better now, honest, and I’m... I’m not gonna...” She bit down on her lip, wishing she had the strength to draw a little blood. “That won’t happen again, Myka. I swear it won’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Myka said. “It wasn’t your fault, Claud, and I’m not going to let you think it was. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

“No,” Claudia agreed. “I didn’t, and I wouldn’t, and I’d never... I just... it was... I just felt so...”

“I was there, Claud, remember?” Myka chuckled, weak but sincere. “I think I know what you felt.”

Claudia flushed, hot with anything but fever. “Yeah. But I... I’m okay now. I’m really okay.”

The sound Myka made wasn’t quite a sigh – at least not the kind of sigh that HG made when she sighed – but it hummed and hissed with something less-than-satisfied just the same. She wasn’t convinced, Claudia could tell, and she knew before Myka even said anything out loud that her next question would be aimed at HG.

“Is she really?”

The anger was definitely gone from HG’s features now, no doubt washed away by Myka’s presence, but Claudia felt the flickering of it behind her own eyes, obscuring her vision in a haze of soft-pulsing red. Everything that she’d felt before any of this had happened – all the worthlessness, the rage at being used, the pain at everyone else’s talking over her and about her and around her – came flooding back, and she was a teenager again. Not a sick little girl any more, but an angry young woman surrounded by elders who didn’t understand her and refused to even try.

“Jeez,” she grumbled. “I thought you guys were done talking about me like I’m not here...”

“Claud...” Myka grimaced. “You know I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, you’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to say things you don’t really feel just because you think it’s what I want to hear. I just thought HG might—”

“Whatever,” Claudia grumbled, interrupting with a restless wave of both hands, and flopped back down onto the bed.

“Hey,” Pete said, playing the interception like a pro. “C’mon, guys. We’re done with all that stupid stuff, right? Everyone’s all cool and awesome and happy again now, right?” He looked pointedly at Claudia, wordlessly entreating her to be mature, like it would somehow make her less inclined to sulk if she saw that he was actually being the responsible one for once. Like she had enough strength left to do the same, even if she had wanted to. Which, to be totally honest, she kinda sorta didn’t actually. Thanks, but no thanks.

Graceful as a cat, HG climbed to her feet. “Perhaps the young lady is right,” she murmured, but the trademark diplomacy didn’t quite reach her eyes. “She is, after all, the only reliable advocate for her own condition. The rest of us are but a mere audience. A rapt, captive one, of course... but an audience nonetheless.”

“Damn right,” Claudia muttered, and she didn’t know which of them she was even talking to any more. “You don’t know crap.”

“Claudia!” Myka barked, ever the reflexive disciplinarian, even at times like this, and Claudia sucked an aggravated breath through her teeth.

“It’s quite all right, Myka,” HG said softly, and this time she did mean it. “I understand completely.” Though she was talking to Myka, her eyes were fixed on Claudia, and Claudia found herself feeling deeply uncomfortable. Too many eyes on her, too much scrutiny from too many different angles, and why couldn’t they all just leave her alone?

Suddenly, she just wanted Myka to take HG away. The room was too crowded, and her brain was starting to follow its example, thrumming with the threat of electrical energy, pulsing with static and noise, and she just wanted people to stop thinking and talking about her, to stop pretending like they understood her, to stop acting like they knew what was spinning around inside her head. She couldn’t bear to hear HG’s words, couldn’t bear to see the understanding in her, so much so that it overrode even the fear she’d felt on seeing her repressed anger unleashed, the lingering bruise-like pain that remained where long fingers had gripped her jaw.

Frustrated and miserable, she flopped onto her stomach and pulled the pillows over her head, drowning out the sound of HG’s empathy and Myka’s worry, their mutual voices tangling around each other in increasingly muffled ripples of barely-static, until all she could hear was the roar of her own blood in her ears. She felt the strong weight of a hand at her back, too large to be HG’s and too calloused to be offering comfort. Pete, probably, and she felt her muscles tense at the touch, nerves exposed and raw and not quite able to figure out whether they wanted the contact or not, every part of her twitching as she reeled.

If he said anything (to her or to them), she didn’t hear it, but when she finally pulled her head up a few minutes later, the need for oxygen more potent than the desire to hide, HG and Myka were both gone. Pete still stood over her like a sentinel, looking down with an expression that, while he couldn’t quite cover over the fact that he was worried, made a conscious point of not showing it too much in the places she could see. He was smart; in a lot of ways, for all that Myka saw him as boneheaded and immature, he was actually kind of smarter than she was – aware, sensitive to stuff like this in a way that Myka was too focused to ever really be – and he knew better than anyone Claudia had ever known, exactly what to do with his emotions.

“It’s safe to come out now,” he said, smirking just enough to set her soul at ease.

She scowled at him for the expression, though, because it intuitive and automatic to scowl at him whenever he did anything, and was surprised by how natural – how comfortable, even – it felt.

“Shut up,” she muttered (because Pete was the one person she never had to thank or apologise to, or even talk to at all if she didn’t want to). She rolled over, coming to rest onto her back; the motion made him take back his hand, and she stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling as he stepped back and away from the bed. “If they’d just quit being stupid jerks about everything, I wouldn’t have to... I wouldn’t be... none of this would have... everything would just be...”

She couldn’t finish, but it didn’t matter. Pete got it. “I know,” he said. “They’re just being dumbasses.”

“Yeah, I got that,” she shot back, petulant. His expression darkened, as though overcome by a vibe, so much so that he actually let her notice it, and she frowned at him. “Pete? What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, far too quickly. “Just worried about your sorry butt, that’s all.” Somehow, when he was the one saying it, it didn’t sound quite so threatening as when it came from Myka or HG or any of the others. “You freaked us all out, you know.” She hung her head, but didn’t say she was sorry. “And, y’know, that was a pretty dumb move. I mean, seriously. What kind of idiot plays around with dangerous artefacts just to get a little attention? Jeez. If you wanted someone to play Go Fish with you, you could’ve just asked...”

“Didn’t do it on purpose, Lattimer,” she muttered, but it felt good to be given something to defend herself from. It made her feel stronger, like maybe there was still some part of this she could control, like maybe there was a fight out there that she could win. “And anyway, dude... you almost die, like, eighteen times a week. You _so_ cannot judge me for this.”

“Oh, I _so_ can...” he shot back, playing up the playfulness. “...attention seeker.”

“Jerk,” she replied, and the grin on her face felt absolutely wonderful.

“Brat,” he smirked back. “You can think you’re all that, Miss Thang, but you’re so not.”

He sobered again after that, though, and it was only when the light faded from his face, the boyish grin taking on a twitch of sadness, that Claudia realised how discomfiting it was to see him look so serious. More than HG, and way more than Myka, it just felt weird to see Pete looking sombre. It made her spine itch.

Myka often overreacted to little things, getting serious over stuff that nobody in their right mind would ever get serious about, and HG got all superior and Victorian and British about everything, which kind of made it hard to know what she was actually thinking, but she definitely _sounded_ serious most of the time. But Pete? He was the one, the only one of them who could be counted on to not care about anything... so when he did get serious, as in, really and truly serious, enough so that it transformed his whole face like that, turned him into someone more like Myka, it was usually for a reason. A real, proper reason... and that was scary. Like, seriously scary, and Claudia really didn’t know if she had enough in her to deal with any more breeds of fear right now.

“Pete,” she whined, in a tiny, hopeless voice.

“Hey,” he said, trying hard way too to keep her from getting dragged down into whatever was bothering him. “Don’t sweat it, Claud. It’s all good. But hey...” He looked thoughtful, then, but it was so unnaturally exaggerated, so not like him that Claudia knew he was just changing the subject so that she’d back off. “How’d you do with HG? She take care of you okay?”

“Uh huh,” she replied, and closed her eyes.

“Claud?” Pete pressed, gentle but insistent.

She forced her eyes back open, and glared up at him. “I don’t wanna,” she said.

She knew that she was sounding like a child again, the stubbornness rising up sharp in her like it always did when she felt threatened... but somehow, when it was just her and Pete all by themselves, and he was looking at her with those just-like-her eyes (those eyes that never needed to be all ‘understanding’ because they just _understood_ ), it didn’t feel so much like a thing to be ashamed of.

“Claud,” he pressed. “C’mon.”

“I don’t wanna,” she said again. “Please, Pete. I don’t want to think about it right now...” She swallowed, then bit down on the inside of her cheek, looked up at him like the kid sister he always said she was. “You get it, dude. Right? You’ve been there too. Y’know? The whole artefact-induced head-fuck thing?”

“Watch the language, Claud,” he warned. The look on his face made it clear that he didn’t really mean it, but Claudia glared at him just the same, and he threw up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of self-defence. “Hey, look, you know Mykes would kick my ass if I didn’t call you on that...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Claudia muttered. And then, like a switch being flipped, she was the one getting serious again. “I mean it. I don’t wanna think about it. I don’t want to remember. I don’t... I can’t... don’t make me think about it, dude.”

“Okay,” he said, and his voice was so low that it almost didn’t sound like him at all. “Okay, Claud. You don’t gotta think about it. You don’t gotta do anything except get better, ’kay?”

She felt the telltale tears behind her eyes, and wished she could be tough enough to drive them back. And she knew, before she said it, before the words had even fully manifested in her head, much less in the back of her throat, she knew what she needed to ask him, knew why it was Pete – only Pete – who was making it make sense, knew why she wasn’t afraid of him judging her like she was afraid of disappointing HG or freaking out Myka or angering Artie or upsetting Leena, or... or...

It was because he, more than anyone else, did get it. Like, he actually _got_ it. He’d been there, and he knew how it felt. Myka didn’t. Leena didn’t. Artie... probably didn’t. And, if HG did, it was so long ago and so far away that maybe it didn’t count anyway. They were nothing like this. They didn’t know. But he did, and he wouldn’t judge her because it was the same bullet he’d taken himself. He could only share what he knew, and that... that was all she needed just then. Someone who _knew_.

“When does it stop?” she whispered.

“Oh...” he said.

The sound was surprisingly small coming from him; it was barely more than a breath, really, and she could tell by the hitch in it that he wasn’t going to lie to her, even if his instincts were telling him to. He wouldn’t talk down to her, wouldn’t treat her like a kid, even if he kind of not-so-secretly saw her as one sometimes. If he didn’t have a real answer (which she kind of guessed was the way it would go down, even before he said it), he wasn’t going to sugar-coat that for her. She was a big girl, and, though there were a whole lot of things she was afraid of, this wasn’t one of them. She could handle the truth; it was the lie that would have ended her.

“It’s not that simple, Claud,” he said at last. “I wish it was. I really do, but it’s not. You got a lot to get over, and sometimes there’s no definitive...” He stumbled over the word, and Claudia supposed that he didn’t use it very often, if ever at all. “It’s just, y’know... sometimes it’s not so simple as ‘when will it stop?’. Sometimes it doesn’t stop ’till it stops, and you don’t know when that is ’till you wake up one morning and realise it doesn’t hurt so much.”

“I wish it was,” she whispered, confiding in him in a way that she knew she’d never be able to with Myka, or even HG. “I wish it was simple. I wish _something_ was.”

“I know, Claud,” he said, and she felt the comforting weight of his arm across her shoulders. “Me too.”


	14. Chapter 14

Helena didn’t say very much once they were alone, and Myka didn’t press her. It was enough, for the most part, that she didn’t try to hide behind false cheer or mask the troubled look on her face, and Myka was mostly content just to sneak glances and try to gauge her feelings.

They retired together to Myka’s bedroom, and Helena sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed with her usual grace, eyes a little lidded as she watched Myka unpack her overnight bag (for the second time in less than a week; sometimes, she thought sadly, it really felt as though all she did was pack and unpack travelling bags). She didn’t volunteer her thoughts, though Myka could tell that she had a great many of them, the gears of her mind turning so forcefully that even Myka, occupied as she was by her task, could hear them whirring. And it was all right that she didn’t want to give voice to them; Myka could understand that, and she had no intention of invading that most sacred of personal space.

Still, though, there were things she did want to know, things that only Helena could tell her, and that was a line she would cross. She waited until she’d finished unpacking, taking her time and letting Helena compose herself; she didn’t say anything, didn’t even really look at her, but she knew that Helena would know, that she would only need to see the tightness around her shoulders, the tension in the lines on her face, read into the silence hovering so comfortably between them, to know what was coming. Helena was a genius; it would be worse than naïve for Myka to think she could hide her intentions from her.

Once she was done, then, as a mark of respect, she didn’t beat around the bush. She cut to the chase, cut through the quiet, and got right down to the crux of it. “How was she?”

Helena hummed. “She was unwell,” she said simply.

“I know that,” Myka replied, though she knew Helena far too well, even now, to think that she wasn’t baiting her on purpose. “And you know that’s not what I meant.” She took in a deep breath, held it for a moment or two, then let it out very slowly. “I mean, how bad did she get?”

Helena looked away, and that in itself was enough to turn the anxiety in Myka’s chest into a flash-fire. All of a sudden, Helena’s eyes were everywhere except on Myka; she studied the bedcovers, the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the cabinets, all the contents of the room she could, and all in the most intimate detail... but she would not meet Myka’s gaze, not even for a moment. It was not like her at all, and Myka felt the worry tugging at the edges of her own thoughts, kicking behind her ribs in a staccato pulse.

“Quite awful,” Helena said, at long last.

Though her voice was even, there was no hiding the way that her hands were shaking in her lap, or the way her eyes continued to dart about. It had taken a great deal, Myka could tell, just to say that much; she wanted to leave it at that, to be thankful that she’d got the honesty she wanted, accept the answer for what it was and move on, but she couldn’t. She needed to know more. Maybe not everything; maybe some things were meant to stay between Helena and Claudia, a kind of twisted gift in return for the kindness that Helena had done in staying by Claudia’s side, a rapport forged between in the worst way. If that was how it was to be, Myka would respect it. She would keep her distance and give them their moments, let them hold their secret darkness close to their chests. She could do that, of course, but she still needed more than what she had. She didn’t expect everything, of course she didn’t... but she needed _something_.

“Yeah?” she asked. The way that Helena still wouldn’t look at her was setting her nerves on edge, and she wished she didn’t have to ask, but she had to hear more. “I mean, uh... yeah?”

“Yes,” Helena confirmed, uncomfortably evasive.

As if to punctuate the moment, her gaze finally settled in one place. She was examining the crack in the wall, underneath the far window, and her eyes must have caught something – a flicker of light or a pattern in the damage – because she stopped looking around, stopped moving at all, and just studied it. Myka knew that, had she been in Helena’s mindset, she herself would probably have caught her focus on exactly the same spot.

“If you must know...” Helena went on, and that clarifier was so unlike her, so unlike the way that they usually communicated with each other – easy and casual, if always with a revenant of salacious Victorian humour – that Myka’s heart actually stopped beating for a moment or two in apprehension. “...she was, for a time, begging for death.”

The tightness in Myka’s chest stuttered violently. “She... what?”

“The last time we spoke,” Helena remarked, “there was nothing wrong with your hearing. And I’m fairly certain I was not mumbling, so unless something has changed quite drastically in the brief time that you and Agent Lattimer were away, I deign to presume that you heard me perfectly well the first time.”

Though her words were cold, unnecessarily harsh, branding a mark in Myka’s heart where it still struggled to catch its rhythm, her eyes spoke on another level. She wasn’t angry with her. She was pleading, the ice in her voice concealing something far more primal than easy anger. _Please_ , she was saying, _please, don’t make me say it again_.

Myka swallowed hard. She couldn’t allow herself to think of the implications in what she was hearing, what it meant for Claudia, how she must have been feeling to be so desperate. She couldn’t let herself think about that, to imagine how deeply she must have been hurting and how completely Myka had let her down by not being there. She couldn’t think of Claudia at all, couldn’t let herself see it from her point of view. If she did, she knew that she would break too. The guilt would surge up in her again, and this time she wouldn’t be able to fight it back down. If she let herself think of Claudia, if she let the guilt rise up and have its way with her, it would be the end of her... and Myka Bering had no intention of meeting her end anywhere except out in the field (and definitely not from something so passive as thought). And so, because she had to, she shut it out completely.

Instead, she thought of Helena. Helena, who was there, right in front of her, every part of her body language calling for attention, for concern, for Myka to see the conflict in her. It was safe to think of Helena, because Helena was here, because Myka knew her and understood her, because she could take in her emotions and share her burdens in a way that she had never quite been able to do for Claudia. For Helena, she could, and so she did. She thought about how she must have felt to be there, studied the lines of her face until she’d committed them to memory, even the worst of them. The haunted sorrow, the heartache of one who had already seen too much unjust suffering in souls too young to suffer, the intimacy that could only have come from treading he dark road that suffering lead down. She felt herself drown in the unvoiced agony behind her eyes, memories of her lost child mirrored now in Claudia’s pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and knew that it wasn’t enough. “I’m sorry you had to be there for that. I’m sorry you had to...”

“I’m sorry as well,” Helena said, and her voice was more dangerous than Myka had ever heard it, all jagged edges and keen points, and sharpened at the tip into something indefinable, a mind perfectly engineered for carving words into weapons. “I’m sorry that she had to hurt so deeply and so profoundly that death was the preferable option to survival. I’m sorry that a strong, courageous, beautiful young woman was driven to such inner torment, and that I – your supposedly ‘great literary mind’ – could do nothing but hold her hand and fill her with empty words. I’m sorry that, for all of the so-called advances in this brave new world, there was nothing – _nothing at all!_ – that could ease her suffering even one iota.”

“It was an artefact,” Myka reminded her, though she knew it wouldn’t offer much comfort. “You know how they work. You know what they do. That’s why we’re Warehouse agents. That’s why we do what we do, Helena. Because we know how dangerous these things are, because we know what they can do.”

“I understand that, Myka,” Helena said, still so unnaturally cold.

“Good,” Myka said; she wanted to be softer, kinder, more of what Helena needed in that moment, but the practicality in her was more powerful, the professional Warehouse agent winning out over the heart that was still struggling so hard just to keep beating. “Because isn’t that why you wanted to come back in the first place? Isn’t that why you got me to talk to the Regents and get them to reinstate you? God, Helena, isn’t that why any of us are here at all? So we can do do the best we can with what we’ve got?” Helena opened her mouth, but Myka wasn’t willing to be interrupted just yet. She met her gaze, dark and deadly as it was, and held it without fear. “We’re not indestructible, Helena. None of us are. You know that better than most.”

“I do know that,” Helena snapped, furious. “I thought you, Myka... you, of all people... would understand just how well I do.”

Myka’s breath caught, rattling in her chest. “You know I understand,” she said softly.

“Then perhaps you should _think_ ,” Helena shouted. It was impressive, Myka couldn’t help thinking, how she could sound so non-judgmental and yet so offended at the same time. “Perhaps you should consider the depth of pain that would drive a person to such an extreme. Perhaps you should stop to think about how deeply the suffering must cut for death to be the most appealing option. Perhaps you should let yourself wonder what kind of demons would drive an enthusiastic, energetic young woman to wish her life cut short in its prime.” She was shaking, though whether it was with rage or a softer emotion, Myka wasn’t sure. “This is no mere side-effect of delirium, Myka. We are not discussing a child in a classroom, compelled by supernatural means to admit some juvenile affection to a classmate, a giddy schoolchild’s confession in a darkened room, brought about by an artefact’s impromptu interference. We are discussing _a plea for death_. We are speaking of a pain so deep, so unfathomable that destruction, complete and irreparable, is the only option left. Do you understand _that_?”

“Of course I do,” Myka answered calmly, but the words sounded as futile to her own ears as they surely did to Helena.

“No,” Helena corrected sharply, almost before she had a chance to finish the sentence. “You don’t. And you should be thankful for it. You cannot imagine a pain as deep as that, unless you have felt its pull yourself. And you, blessedly, have not.”

Myka sighed, refused to acknowledge the truth in what she was being told, even as she knew that she couldn’t argue with it. “Helena, I...”

Helena exhaled. Low and rough, the sound came from the deepest parts of her, the parts that did understand Claudia’s pain, the parts that knew too well exactly what her delirium had cost her, and Myka could have lost herself in the sound and the empathy it spoke of, and all those tragic, horrible things that she could never truly be a part of.

“It’s in her,” Helena explained, very quietly. “The despair is her own. For all that the artefact did to her, it did not invent feelings that were not there to begin with. It did not affect her mind, Myka, or her spirit. It blighted her body, yes. It damaged her physical health, made her ill, drove her to delirium and fear. But the things that _caused_ that fear... those were no conjured product of artefact intervention. They were already within her. Suppressed and hidden, yes, but present... ever present. The artefact merely sundered her defences so that they could take hold.” Myka didn’t want to hear this, but it was more than she could do to ask Helena to stop. “The artefact made her feverish, but you cannot blame it for her reaction, her emotional suffering. The pain, the confusion, the weight bearing down upon her mind... the memories that incited so much trauma in her soul... these are not the product of an artefact, Myka; they are within her. Whether you would believe that or not, they are hers, and that will not change just because you have only seen them for the first time now. They are real and they are there, and they will not disappear simply because she has recovered enough fortitude to repress them again.”

“You underestimate her,” Myka whispered, but her voice was shaking as hard as her hands.

“I do not,” Helena replied; she sounded strong, fortified by her faith in what she was saying. “ _You_ underestimate what she feels.”

Myka forced herself to be professional, to not think about the underlying issues there, to focus on the situation that was and not the thoughts that may have once been. “Claudia’s not like that,” she said. “She’s not irrational. She’s not the sort of person who would let those things govern her. She’s tough, Helena, and smart, and brave. She simply isn’t like that. She isn’t _weak_.”

Helena stiffened at that, her entire body going whip-tight, as though Myka had struck her a physical blow. “I see,” she said.

She still looked so angry, so inexpressibly furious, but this time she was visibly trying to rein it in, to hold the rage in check before it spilled over, and Myka found that she was more worried by her refusal to express it than she would have been if there had been a rant, or even a feint at violence. It was so unlike Helena to be so restrained, to hold her own feelings in check, and all the more so when Myka herself was the only one there to see it. She was the one person, they both knew, who would never judge her, who would never accuse her or take offense, who understood how difficult this world was to someone who came from one so different. Helena knew that, knew that Myka was on her side unconditionally, knew that she could rant and rave, scream and shout, that she could do whatever she felt she needed to do, and Myka would still be there.

More than that, though, it just wasn’t like her. Helena was always so vocal, so expressive, so fundamentally open. She didn’t hold back her thoughts, even when she knew perfectly well that it would serve her best to do so. Her principles, Myka knew, were sacred, and she knew that Myka would have her back, even at her worst. She was refined, yes, politically correct when she knew there was a good reason for it... but she never restrained herself when she felt strongly about something, and it struck Myka far deeper than she’d anticipated to see her do that now, trying so hard to be the opposite of what she truly was, struggling to keep her heart subdued, and everything in it locked down tight.

“Look,” Myka said hopelessly, trying to draw out whatever it was that was making Helena feel that she somehow needed to hold back the truth of what she was feeling. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Like what?” Helena demanded; her voice was bitter, but her posture was as calm and strong as it ever was. “You didn’t mean to sound as though you would have accused a young woman – a child, practically, whatever your housekeeper may say on that particular issue – of being _weak_ had she deigned to confess a need for help? Or, worse still, that she already is, simply for needing such help in the first place?” Myka opened her mouth to defend herself, to say that she hadn’t been saying that at all, but Helena shot her right back down with a gesture that almost bore a shade of her usual passion. “There is no weakness in needing help, Myka. If I cannot depend upon you, of all people, to understand that...”

“I just meant,” Myka explained, speaking very slowly, “that Claudia’s much too smart to let irrational things overpower her.”

“I see,” Helena said again; Myka was beginning to actively dislike the way she said it, so cold and void of emotion even as every inch of her trembled with it. “In that case, and with all respect, Agent Bering, you have a great deal to learn. About Miss Donovan, and about what is and is not ‘rational’.”

Myka winced. This conversation was skirting far too close to an argument for her liking, and her efforts to steer it back from the brink with some degree of subtlety were being thwarted at every turn. She should have realised, she knew, that this was far more personal than Helena would have her think, that Helena empathised with Claudia’s suffering on a level that ran so much deeper than just the eternal flame of a mother’s heart beating in tortured symphony at the sight of a child in pain. She had seen the look on Helena’s face, had felt her despair at not being able to help, her refusal to leave Claudia’s side even as they both knew how much it must have hurt her to keep watching. She’d thought she knew how deep Helena’s emotions ran, how much she was feeling, and she hadn’t stopped to that maybe even she – she, who they all knew Helena trusted beyond all others – hadn’t been let all the way in.

“I don’t want to fight about this, HG,” she said, because she couldn’t take back her words and Helena didn’t want to hear her fruitless apologies.

“Believe me,” Helena muttered coldly, “I don’t want that either.” She turned away, and was already halfway to the door when she spoke again. “So perhaps it would be best for us both if we were to take our leave of each other now. I should return to Claudia anyway... and I have no doubt that our dear friend Artie is beside himself with anticipation at the prospect of a new toy for his artefact collection, so perhaps you should go to the Warehouse and provide him with a like-minded audience.”

It bothered Myka far more than it ever had before that her reflexive reaction to that was a wordless acknowledgement of the fact that she really did need to finish writing her report.

She wanted to talk it out, of course she did, wanted to tell Helena that she did support her, that she supported Claudia, that she would never think less of either of them, that she wanted nothing more than to be there for them both. She wanted Helena to know that she tried, that the intentions were there even when she couldn’t quite see them into effect. She wanted them both to stay here, right in here, until they understood each other, until Helena understood what she meant...

...but at the same time, she did have work to do. She had a report to finish, and an artefact to shelf, and, as much as she wanted to spend the rest of the day – the rest of her life – making Helena see how much she was respected, the Warehouse agent in her kept repeating, over and over again, that the job came first. The artefact – that stupid, innocent-looking necklace – had been wandering the world unfettered for too long already; it had caused enough damage. There was, of course, no way of knowing how many others it had unwittingly affected before Claudia, or how badly, but that didn’t matter. It had hurt one of theirs, and that made Myka all the more determined to see it locked up safe in the Warehouse.

They were so different, she and Helena. Helena needed to have her hands on everything, to be there, to take action, to _do_. Myka wasn’t so practical. She was good at what she did, of course, but that wasn’t the same as being at home. Paperwork was her forte, reports and files and administration. She was organised and professional, governed by practicality, her head always before her heart, and this time was no exception.

Claudia was out of danger. Whatever had happened, whatever she had been going through when she’d been affected, it was over now. If she chose to repress whatever traumas Helena saw in her, that was her business. Myka had done all that she could, and she’d undone the only damage that could have been undone. But she needed to see the mission through to its conclusion, all the ‘T’s crossed and the ‘I’s dotted, every piece of punctuation in its proper place and the artefact safely stored away with other such destructive things. She needed to see that done, for her own sake. She needed to put the guilt aside, to leave it on the shelf with the necklace, to leave her own feelings behind so she could go back to being the Myka Bering they all needed.

Maybe things would be more straightforward once that was done, she thought, even as she knew the hope was false. Maybe, with the artefact shelved and the case closed, they could all put it behind them. Claudia could go back to being Claudia, chalk it up to another learning experience, and no doubt make the same mistake a dozen times or more before it really sank in. Artie would go back to muttering and grumbling about things that didn’t affect anyone, blaming Helena for things she couldn’t possibly be responsible for, and generally making the Warehouse a difficult place to be for the foreseeable future... and Helena could cast aside her own traumas, her own struggles, and realise that Myka had not meant what she’d thought.

They would all be fine, Myka decided, just as soon as her report was filed and everything was back to the way it had been before. Out of sight, out of mind. It was more than just good practice – it was good sense.

In the event, though, it didn’t really matter what she was thinking anyway, or whether she would have preferred to see the discussion through, because Helena was gone before she had a chance to say anything at all. 

Briefly, Myka thought about calling after her, about insisting that they should talk things out, or at least that Helena stay for long enough to see the file get closed and the curtain drawn over the whole event. And, yes, part of her hated the idea of ending on a sour note, believing more than she’d ever say aloud in the idea of never letting the sun set over negativity, but the slamming of the door (or, well, almost-slamming, anyway; Helena was still a lady, after all, and slamming things wasn’t really in her repertoire, no matter how upset she was) told her that it would have been a waste of time to even try. She consoled herself that it was understandable, even has her mind was already racing to the pen sitting on her desk and the report lying underneath it, still unfinished. Helena must have been under a great deal of strain taking care of Claudia on her own, she decided, and just needed some time to cool off and gain some distance. Once this was all finished and closed, she would look at it through fresh eyes, clear-headed and rational. Myka was sure of it.

It didn’t help with the guilt, thinking that way, but at least it calmed the part of her that was beginning to truly worry.

Once she got the necessaries out of the way, she decided, she’d talk to Claudia. She’d apologise for everything that had happened – all the arguing, the distractions, the thoughtlessness, everything – and then she’d ask how she was. She’d look right at her and ask if she was all right, and Claudia would tell her what she already knew – that she was fine, that she’d just been delirious, that everything was all under control now, just like it should be, that she’d been scared and sick but that was all over now. She’d say it, and Myka would believe her, because it was Claudia, and Claudia couldn’t lie even if she wanted to. And then... and then she’d find Helena again, she’d find her and she’d tell her that she was overreacting to all of this, that she was too close to it, too tied down by her own experiences to see Claudia for the phenomenal survivor that she was.

Helena would see the difference, she was sure. The world had changed in the last century, and so too had the kind of people who lived in it. Things that had been so normal and acceptable in Victorian London were not that way any more, and certainly not here. And, likewise, things that were not so acceptable, demons and darknesses that just weren’t talked about in polite Victorian society were not so cut off any more. If Claudia was as troubled as she’d said, Myka would know, because things weren’t hidden away behind closed doors and whispering posh people. Helena would learn; what she thought she was seeing in Claudia just did not exist. There was no place for it here. She would see.

Helena was definitely right about Artie’s artefact-induced enthusiasm, though. When Myka pulled up outside the Warehouse about half an hour later, having finally finished her report, he was practically bouncing with irrepressible anticipation.

In his defence, he had the decency to ask about Claudia before he launched into official business. His eyes darkened a little when he did, though, and Myka couldn’t help noticing the way that he wouldn’t look at her. The rift between them wasn’t nearly so big as it had been before, they both knew that, but there was still a barrier there, something that neither of them could or would break through, and Artie was no more comfortable letting her see just how worried he was than Myka would have been for him to see the same in her. It didn’t stop her from knowing it was there, of course, but it did keep her from shining a spotlight on it, and she knew (as well as she knew it would have been the same for her) that keeping that distance would be enough to pull him through.

“She’s okay now,” Myka assured him. “She’s doing much better since we bagged that thing.”

Naturally, she didn’t mention Helena’s feelings. Artie would share her cynicism, she knew, and the part of her that still itched for his approval didn’t want to risk him thinking that she might have actually bought the devil woman’s irrational concerns. He would lecture her about it, too, she was positive, spill his vitriol about how Helena was playing on her sympathy, making her worry about silly things just to see how thoroughly she could play her, and Myka frankly had no intention of setting herself up to hear it. She could handle Helena on her own; there was no need to involve Artie and his obvious distaste for her.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, but he sounded guarded, and the way he looked at her said he knew she was withholding something, even if it was just as obvious that he didn’t know what it was. “I was...”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it aloud (too close to actual sentiment for his taste), but Myka heard the unspoken word, _‘worried’_ , as clearly as if he had done.

Myka took a deep breath; she knew exactly how he felt, but that didn’t make it any easier to know how to deal with him. They were so alike, but she couldn’t treat him the way she would have wanted to be treated in his place. So instead, she just shrugged, feigning ambivalence, and said, “I bet she’d really like to see you.”

Artie flinched at that, then immediately began fumbling with about eighty-seven different things from opposing corners of the office.

“Ah,” he mumbled. “No, no, no. That won’t do at all. There’s far too much to do here. I have to read your report, and file the proper paperwork, and Leena is refusing to find an acceptable place for the artefact because apparently it has ‘feelings’ now, so I need to go and deal with that, and there’s just too much that needs doing.” He shook his head so hard that Myka was a little concerned he might shake it loose. “I can’t just go gallivanting off to the B&B for social calls every five minutes, you know! I have work to do! Important work!” He stopped in mid-flail, dropping an armful of papers on the floor, and scowled at her. “The kind of work that requires complete and detailed reports! Which, may I remind you have not been submitted yet!”

“I’ve got it right here,” Myka shot back smoothly, and handed over the item in question. “For your perusal, my liege...”

“Excellent!” he cried, and Myka was sure that she had never seen anyone so excited about paperwork in all her life.

They talked about the mission a little, and it didn’t take much for Artie’s enthusiasm to infect Myka as well, her inherent love of learning always right at the surface regardless of anything else going on around her. She tried not to beam too brightly when he praised her for having caught such an obscure artefact so quickly, and listened attentively as he talked her through the love story between Henry Tudor and Anne Boleyn, the affection they’d shared long before he’d been allowed to make her his wife, how distraught he’d been when she’d been suffering. It was a lovely history lesson, it really was, though Myka had been rather more hopeful of hearing that delightful tale from Helena. She didn’t tell Artie that, though, instead humouring him and his characteristic dry-but-animated way of expressing himself. It was, she’d learned long ago, best to just stand back and take in as much as she could when he got like this, because trying to stop him was simply not an option.

Not that the subject was particularly interesting anyway, she had to admit, and she’d gleaned about as much detail out of the museum’s tag back in London as she was getting from Artie now, but at least she could walk out of here with her head held high knowing that she’d been quiet and attentive and everything that a good agent ought to be. And that counted for something, right?

Like he often did, and especially in cases that had been as potentially lethal as this one had, Artie insisted that they go through the report, point by point, together. Myka wasn’t entirely sure whether he was secretly looking for an excuse to keep her company or simply so invested in this thing – helping Claudia in the only way that he could when he still didn’t have enough courage to go and see her – that he couldn’t bear to let Myka leave until he’d dragged every last fragment of the story out of her. Either way, she didn’t complain, and she wouldn’t have even if she could have. 

Truth was, she was glad of the company too. It took her mind off other things – the emotion shaking Claudia’s body, even healthy, the way that she’d trembled when she’d hugged her, the way that Myka’s instincts were telling her that everything she’d seen in her was resonating with what Helena was so worried about. It stopped her from listening to the tiny voice in the back of her mind that wondered, even as her common sense drowned it out, whether there might be something in Helena’s concerns after all, if maybe Claudia wasn’t nearly so good as she’d claimed just because her body was healed.

No, she thought. None of that was where she needed her focus to be, and every second that Artie kept her attention on the fallout from the mission was a second that she didn’t need to think about any of it. This was what she needed to do, focus on Artie, displace all of her qualms onto him until there was nothing left to think about.

“I really, really think she’d like to see you,” she blurted out when Artie took a breath. The words surprised them both, Myka as much as Artie, but she couldn’t take them back now.

“I told you,” he said, sighing. “I have too much to do here.”

“I know you do,” she replied, though it wasn’t really true coming from either of them. “And you know I get it. But it’s _Claudia_. I know you’re squeamish – hell, I am too – but... but it’s Claudia. Out of all the people you’re too much of a girl to go visit, you can’t pull that on her. Not Claud. She’d never forgive you, Artie, and we both know it.”

The look on his face told her that he knew she was right, but she could see his inherent uneasiness was still winning out over his conscience, over the need to do the right thing and the genuine desire to go and see his protégé (which, yes, Myka knew was there, however hard he’d try to deny it). And of course she understood. She got it, just as she’d told him she did. She had been too squeamish as well, too freaked out and overcome by her own helplessness, too disturbed by her own experience, rattled by having seen first-hand the scope of Claudia’s illness and all the horrors that went with it... so of course she understood, truly she did. But she knew, just as surely as she herself had had to step up and do what was right, for Claudia’s sake if not for her own, so too did Artie.

“Artie...” she sighed. “She’s fine. She’s not sick any more.”

“Are you sure?” he demanded, somehow managing to sound like an ill-tempered boss and an anxious little boy at the same time.

Myka didn’t laugh, as much as she kind of wanted to. “Yes, Artie. I’m sure. She’s okay now.”

Artie made a noise under his breath, a not-quite-irritable little sound that Myka couldn’t quite identify, and promptly buried himself in the report for the hundredth time that minute. Myka didn’t press the issue, having learned far too many times that nobody could convince Artie to do anything quite as effectively as he could convince himself, if only he was left alone for long enough to contemplate it in his own time. He was just stubborn that way. Myka had planted the seed in his head. There wasn’t much more she could do now but sit back and wait to see if it flowered.

For her own part, when they were finally finished going through the mission and all its intricacies, she did exactly what she’d promised herself she would. Leading by example, she made her way back to the B&B, and to Claudia’s room. And this time, she didn’t hesitate before going inside.

Pete and Helena were both there, keeping Claudia company (at least, as much as she was willing to let them; it didn’t take an observational genius of Myka’s standing to see that she was not happy with either of them being there, or by the perceived crushing of her freedom with the need for things like ‘rest’ and ‘company’). She was staring miserably up at the ceiling, as though it was the source of all the pain that had ever existed in the world, scowling and glaring and making obnoxious little sounds that Myka was pretty sure had to be thinly-veiled curse-words, and generally being an arrogant teenager about the whole affair.

Pete sat on the edge of the bed, characteristically trying to lighten up the weight of the environment with his usual wisecracks and Pete-isms, while Helena stood next to the doorway and looked deeply troubled.

Myka hovered at the threshold for a moment or two, not exactly uneasy but oddly nervous, and it was only when Claudia glanced across the room and caught her eye that she realised she’d lost her chance of escaping. She hadn’t planned on using it, of course, but it had been peculiarly comforting to know that it was there, and now that she had no choice but to do what she’d been psyching herself up to, she felt a little at sea, like someone had thrown her out of a lifeboat and left her to swim for shore all by herself.

“Hey,” Claudia muttered.

She sounded irritable, but Myka could tell that it was just the situation in general that had her so pissed off, and not her personal presence. Claudia was still Claudia, whatever she’d been through, and Myka knew perfectly well that her best defence mechanism when she was feeling unhappy was to lash out in all directions. So, when she clenched her jaw, baring all her teeth and looking as ferocious as she possibly could, Myka didn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Hey, Claud.”

“Exit’s right over there,” Claudia huffed. “Y’know, for when you decide you wanna run away again.”

Myka chuckled, refusing to let the comment light a spark in her ever-present guilt. They’d been through this, and they both knew where the other stood; it was the cabin fever and crankiness that was making Claudia talk so crudely, not malice. “I’m not going to run away again,” she assured her.

“Whatever,” Claudia muttered, scowling at her for about a third of a second, then going back to side-eying the ceiling.

Pete forced a chuckle, ever the diplomat, and patted her arm. Claudia grunted irritably and rolled over onto her side, facing the far wall and effectually ignoring everyone else in the vicinity. “She doesn’t deal well with bed-rest,” Pete explained, talking to Myka. “She’s been whining non-stop for like an hour.” His voice went up about three octaves in an unconvincing but amusing imitation. “ _I don’t wanna stay in bed! You can’t make me! Oh my God! Go away! Leave me alone! Waaah!_ ”

“So, she’s definitely feeling better, then?” Myka chuckled, casting an eye at Helena in wordless enquiry; the petulance certainly sounded like a typical case of Claudia In A Bad Mood to her, with no ulterior motives or underlying issues or any other melodrama that Helena wanted so desperately to believe was inside her.

“Dumbasses,” Claudia muttered at the wall. “All of you.”

“Oh my God,” Pete cried. “Could you be more of a brat?”

“Shut up, Lattimer,” Claudia griped. “You’re a freakin’ baby after your so-called ‘near-death experiences’, so you can just bite me.”

Myka chuckled. “She kind of has a point...” she said lightly, and not just because she wanted to get Claudia on her side by being friendly and agreeable.

Helena took a surreptitious step backwards, and another, until she reached Myka’s side. Her presence was warm, and warmer still as she leaned in close, as though they were sharing secrets. She didn’t say anything out loud, but she made it clear through her body language that she very much wanted to, and indeed probably would have if she could bring herself to leave the room and discuss things in relative privacy. It seemed, however, that her need to keep vigil over Claudia (whether or not Claudia actually wanted her to) had rather more of a grasp over her sensibilities than her inclination to pursue empty avenues with Myka, because made no attempt to leave, and didn’t try to guide Myka away either.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost strained, and Myka, suspecting that her presence had caused it, felt compelled to break it herself. “Claud...” she started, and it would have been the world’s most perfect opener if only she’d had anything to follow it.

Claudia growled. “Myka. Dude. Unless you’re gonna tell these jokers that I don’t need to stay in bed like some kind of freakin’ invalid, I really, really don’t wanna hear it.” She rolled over, glaring at each of the three of them in turn, before returning to her scrutiny of the wall. “And, if you’re just gonna be like them and insist that I stay here and ‘recover’... which, by the way, don’t think I don’t know is totally code for ‘stay out of trouble’—” Myka would have laughed, but she was afraid for what Claudia would do to her if she did. “—then maybe you should all just leave me alone. To rest, or whatever.”

Swallowing down her fear of being decapitated, Myka approached the bed. She wasn’t quite as brave as Pete – she couldn’t quite muster the courage to actually sit down – but she reached out a tentative hand to touch Claudia’s shoulder, squeezing lightly until Claudia had no choice but to roll back over and acknowledge that she was there. When she finally did, apparently realising that this particular annoyance wasn’t going to go away if she ignored it for long enough, it was with a moody huff and a scowl that could shatter glass.

“Claud,” Myka said, trying to sound gentle and sisterly and not at all Artie-like.

“What? God, can’t any of you people ever take a hint?”

Myka smiled, even though it made her face ache. “Claud, you’ve been sick. Really sick. Like, ‘near-death-experience’ sick.” More so than either of them would admit, if Helena was to be believed, but she didn’t say that, or give any hint that she’d thought it. “It’d be kind of stupid to not take a little time out.”

“So I’m stupid now?” Claudia griped, and Myka groaned.

“I didn’t say that,” she sighed. “But you have been sick.”

“ _Artefact_ sick,” Claudia corrected bitterly. “That so totally doesn’t count. It’s not like I had the freakin’ flu or anything, jeez. You got the artefact, so I’m good now. It’s all good, it’s all cool. Victory dancing and high-fiving all around, yeah? Game over, roll credits, high score, put your initials up on the leader-board. Hell to the yeah.”

Myka had absolutely no idea what she was talking about (and neither, it seemed, did Helena, though that was hardly a surprise), but Pete apparently got it because he giggled like an idiot.

“Claud...”

“I’m fine!” Claudia insisted again, louder, the teenage petulance giving way to real aggression. “Why can’t you dumbasses just freakin’ _get_ that?”

Behind her, Myka heard Helena pull in a breath, but she didn’t say anything; though she knew it was crucial that she keep her eyes fixed on Claudia, she couldn’t resist the urge to whirl around for a second or two to gauge the expression on Helena’s face too. It was a second or two too long, though, and she felt Claudia’s arm go rigid under her fingertips in the instant she turned away. She cursed silently, and turned back, letting her eyes apologise for the momentary lapse so that her lips wouldn’t have to.

Claudia, ever petulant, even with the rising of her real temper, just rolled her eyes. Myka tried to smile, warm and apologetic, but the expression wouldn’t shape itself on her face. Because Claudia was starting to look haunted, and Myka had had just enough time to catch the strain flickering in Helena’s eyes before she’d turned back, the certainty that there was more wrong than there was right in the room just then. As hard as she tried, Myka could not push that look out of her mind as she locked her attention back on the shadows under Claudia’s eyes.

“Claud,” she said again, kind but sober. “I know that you think you feel fine now, but you’ve still been through a lot. An ordeal is still an ordeal, and you should—”

“It wasn’t an ordeal,” Claudia hissed, increasing furious, and Myka couldn’t help wondering if perhaps ‘the lady doth protest too much’. “It was a lame, stupid artefact, and it’s over now. It’s over now, dammit! It’s supposed to be _over_!”

Myka sighed, caressed her shoulder in the vain hope of easing the tension she felt there, until Claudia wriggled out of her hold and inched over to the other side of the bed. “Claud, listen...”

“No! _You_ listen!” She sat bolt upright, and fixed her glare on Helena, on Myka, on Pete, on anyone who would hold her gaze when she caught theirs. “All of you. I don’t want to ‘rest’. I don’t want to ‘take it easy’. I don’t want to ‘recover’, or ‘recuperate’ or what-the-hell-ever. I don’t want to be in this stupid bed. I don’t want to be here at all. _I. Am. Better. Now._ So you all need to back the hell off and leave me alone and just... just let me get the hell out of this room. Just let me get out of here.”

Myka grimaced. She empathised, sincerely, but it was so difficult to talk to Claudia when she was like this. “Claudia.”

“Mykes...” Pete interrupted. His voice was very low, tentative in a way that he didn’t usually let himself be in front of Claudia. “Maybe she’s right. She’s smart, yeah? She knows what’s best for her, better than we do.”

“Of course,” Helena said, sounding tense. “Because letting her run off by herself was such a thrilling success the last time...”

“Hey!” Pete snapped, sharp as a blade, and it was the first time Myka had seen him actively lose his temper with Helena since before she’d been reinstated. “Mary Poppins! When she needs a spoonful of sugar, we’ll give you a call, but until then, how ’bout you back off and—”

“Pete!” Myka blurted, shocked. “That was totally uncalled for!”

He seemed to catch himself, at that, shaking off the rage with obvious difficulty and hanging his head. “Right. Yeah.”

“She’s just trying to help.”

“I know,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry, Mykes. Sorry, Claud.” He punctuated the apology by tousling Claudia’s hair, much to her obvious (if slightly shaky) irritation, then glanced up at Helena with the decency to look genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, HG.” He grimaced, then, the expression contorting his face until even Myka struggled to recognise it. “You’re, uh... you’re probably right.”

“Not you too!” Claudia snarled, her outrage painting her face red, but Pete shook his head, refusing to be drawn in, much to Myka’s approval.

“Sorry, Claud, but she kind of... she kind of is. You didn’t do so good the last time, did you?”

“That was the artefact!” she wailed. “You can’t hold me responsible for crap that happened when I was artefacted! That’s not fair!”

“Okay,” Myka said at last.

Everyone looked at her, and she looked back at each of them in turn – Helena, then Pete, and finally Claudia. She was so desperate to get things back on track, so desperate to just do one thing right that she didn’t stop to think about what she was about to say until she was already saying it.

“You really want to get out of here, Claud?” she pressed. “Okay. That’s just fine. You can get out of here.” Helena drew in a sharp breath behind her, but Myka refused to break contact with Claudia. “No, really, it’s fine. If you’re really going stir-crazy in here, it’s okay. You can have a change of scenery.” She turned then, taking in Pete and Helena in the same pointed look. “It’s not that big a deal.”

Claudia was studying her suspiciously, clearly realising that there would have to be a clause. “So what’s the catch?”

Myka shrugged. “Only that I’m going with you,” she said simply. “That’s not so bad, right?”

Claudia opened up her mouth to argue, but Myka dutifully pre-empted the indignation she knew would come out of it.

“Look,” she pressed. “You’re not going anywhere on your own. That’s not even a question.” Claudia tried to complain again, but Myka held up a hand that made it clear that, if she didn’t hold her tongue, she’d rescind the offer completely. “I’m serious. You’ve been affected by an artefact, Claud, which made you really sick. And if you’re not going to stay in bed and rest like a sane, sensible person, then at the very least, you’re going to be supervised.”

“I don’t need to be ‘supervised’,” Claudia whined, miming quote-marks around the word as though it were the most offensive thing anyone had ever said.

“I said it’s not a question, Claud.” Myka gave her a pointed look, driving the point home with her eyes as well as her words, then took a breath. “And besides anything else... I kind of wasn’t exactly there for you when you needed me. So maybe I... maybe I should be there for you now.” She glared at the sudden wideness of Claudia’s eyes (the kind that told her a wiseass comment was just on the horizon, as soon as she recovered from the surprise), and the obnoxious little whistle that could only have come from Pete. “Oh, shut _up_.”

“Myka...” Helena started, but didn’t seem confident enough to finish her thoughts with Pete and Claudia in the room with them. And so, instead, she just asked, “Are you sure?”

Myka nodded quickly, willing her breeziness to dismiss Helena’s point before she could make it. Honestly, she wasn’t nearly so sure as she wished she was; it only took a glance at the lines beneath Claudia’s eyes to hear Helena’s concerns echoing in her mind all over again. But she didn’t want to think about that, couldn’t let herself think about it. And more even than that, she didn’t want Helena to realise that she was wavering, and so she played up the casualness, the surety, the illusion of self-confidence, like it was her last line of defence.

“If she’s really feeling okay,” she pointed out, “there’s no reason she should be stuck indoors.”

“Awesome!” Claudia cried, and the look on her face was closer to a real smile than anything Myka had seen from her in a very long time as she hopped off the bed. It was fleeting, vanishing as her legs wobbled beneath her, but sweet, and its effect lingered on the rest of them. “I’ll go get my coat,” she enthused. “You can, like, buy me ice-cream!”

“I’ll buy you _water_ ,” Myka corrected tightly, “and you’ll be grateful.”

Claudia pouted, but it reshaped her face in a way that was so completely different to the pouts and scowls and huffed breaths that had gone before it; she looked almost like her usual self, acting the brat because it was expected of her, and Myka felt her own mouth split into a grin that was genuine as well. “You’re no fun...”

“I’m very fun!” Myka argued, and ignored the disbelieving choke from Pete, and the delicate cough from Helena. She did not, however, ignore Claudia’s rebellious little eye-roll. “Look! I can be the most fun person you’ve ever known, okay? You can’t handle the fun I can be. But not now.” Claudia huffed, and Myka shook her head. “I mean it, Claud. Until you prove that you’re not going to throw up on me again the next time I turn my back on you, you will get water and only water, and you will be thankful that I’ve let you have anything at all. Are we clear?”

“Whatever.” Claudia folded her arms across her chest, jutting out her jaw. “ _Mom_.”

In the long moment that followed, Myka decided that, as much as she didn’t have a problem with that particular accusation, she really could have done without Pete giggling over how ‘adorable’ it was.


	15. Chapter 15

“You were, y’know.”

The look of baffled confusion on Myka’s face was so complete, so unguarded, that Claudia couldn’t help feeling a little proud of herself. It wasn’t very often that she was able to get that look; well, at least, not on purpose. Most of the time it happened because she’d just said something so unimaginably stupid that Myka (and, usually, everyone else within a hundred miles) needed to take a moment to process the fact that, yes, she actually did just say that.

Not this time, though. This time, she knew exactly what she was saying, and so Myka’s befuddlement was nothing short of a victory. She grinned, and Myka started to look a little guarded.

“Were what?” she asked, the confusion giving way to cautious curiosity. “What was I, exactly?”

Claudia shrugged. She really didn't want to make a _thing_ out of it, so she focused on the way that she’d managed to confuse the unconfuseable Myka Bering in the hopes that the confidence would bolster her enough to get the words out.

“There for me,” she said, as airily as she could manage. “Y’know, when I... when I was sick.”

The curiosity fell off Myka’s face just as quickly as the confusion had, only this time it was chased by something a little like sadness. Claudia felt a punch in her gut, not forceful but upsetting just the same; she’d meant for the words to be reassuring, maybe even offer Myka a kind of comfort (not that she was ever any good at making that happen). She’d wanted to make her know that she understood, that they were cool and everything was good... only, instead, she’d just made her face go sad, and her eyes get kind of guilt-stricken and haunted, and that wasn’t part of the plan at all.

“I appreciate the thought, Claud,” Myka said softly. She always spoke softly when she was sad but didn’t want anyone else to know about it, and of course by so doing she thus made everyone within a hundred miles know about it. “But I really wasn’t. I just ran away, like you said.”

“Well, schyeah!” Claudia replied coolly. “To go back to London and snag the artefact!”

Myka opened her mouth, and left it hanging there for a long and silly-looking moment, apparently trying to figure out whether it was worth busting Claudia’s balloon of comfort-offering with little things like technicalities and facts or whether to just take the moment offered for what it was. In the end, she must have decided that whatever it was that she’d been thinking of saying was best left not said at all, because she ultimately just shut her mouth completely, and didn’t say anything else at all. Claudia huffed irritably at her, but didn’t call her on her reticence. Because she was just cool and understanding that way.

“Dude,” she said instead. “Myka. You were tryin’ to, y’know, like, save my life and stuff. Y’know? I so totally get it.”

“Claudia.”

Myka’s hand was at her back, then, and it was kind of worrying because Myka was the kind of person who only really touched people when something wasn’t cool. Claudia had learned a long time ago that, if touching was going to be an option – at least, when it came to stuff involving Myka – she would have to be the one to instigate it. And she was generally kind of okay with that, happy to dish out the hugs instead of taking them, at least most of the time... except that sometimes stuff like this happened, when Myka was the one doing the touching, and instead of taking comfort from it, all Claudia could think to do was panic.

“Dude...” she said again, but it was verging on whimpery this time. “Myka. Like... could you just... could you... can’t you just quit bein’ such a...”

“I’m sorry,” Myka blurted in a squeaky little voice. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you like HG was. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you in the place you wanted me to be.”

“You were there in the place that I _needed_ you to be,” Claudia said, without a moment’s hesitation. “God, Myka, I’m... I’m freakin’ alive because of you! You saved my damn life, and if you hadn’t been where you were, then I would’ve... I’d still be...” She closed her eyes, tried to drown out the resurfacing demons. She couldn’t bear to think about it. “You were where you had to be, dude. So don’t start second-guessing everything and getting all _Myka_ about it, okay?” She could tell by the look on Myka’s face that she was wondering whether or not Claudia had picked up that particular term from Pete (the answer, of course, was ‘yes’, but Myka didn’t need to know that), and so she pressed hurriedly on before she could ask. “Just, y’know, don’t make this into a thing.”

“It’s not a thing,” Myka argued with a weary sigh. “It’s just... something.”

“Myka...”

Claudia bit back a grimace. Why the hell did she have to be the adult in this stupid situation? Didn’t she get a get-out-of-jail-free card or something for being the one who’d almost died? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one getting carte blanche to be a little cranky? How come it was okay for Myka to act like this, but when she did it, she was a brat? Why did she have to step up and make everyone realise how stupid they were, when all she wanted to do was curl up all on her own and cry until there was nothing left in her? Why did she have to care so freaking much?

“Look,” she said, letting the words chain the tears in place. “I’m alive. Everyone’s alive. It’s all wicked awesome. You don’t... you don’t gotta beat yourself up over anything, Myka, okay? I get it. I totally get it.” She leaned in, bumped Myka’s shoulder as best she could (which kind of wasn’t very, because she was about half a head shorter and their shoulders were kind of too far apart for the dynamics to really work very well at all). “I’d probably have freaked the hell out too, if some punk-ass loser puked all over me.”

Seemingly in spite of herself, Myka actually laughed. “You’re not ‘some punk-ass loser’,” she said, and her eyes were kind of sparkling a bit. “And it wasn’t as bad as all that. I just...”

“Freaked the hell out?” Claudia offered. She really did understand that part.

“Yeah,” Myka affirmed kindly. “I freaked the hell out. And not because you were a punk-ass anything, Claud, so don’t get that in your head. I just panicked. I freaked out, and I froze. And that’s not...” She cupped the back of Claudia’s neck, and made her look at her. “It’s not your fault, Claud, okay? It's _not_.”

Claudia sighed, turned her face away because it was the only defence mechanism she had. “I’m a sucky sick person...”

The sound that cut free from Myka’s throat, Claudia was pretty sure, was supposed to be a laugh. “Claud, you weren’t the one being stupid, okay? I was. You were feeling sick and I was pulling you around, and of course you were going to throw up after that. Anyone would have.”

“I bet Pete wouldn’t have,” Claudia mumbled.

“Yeah, well, Pete’s stomach is coated in iron,” Myka shot back. “What I’m saying is, you didn’t do anything wrong. And sure, you can be a brat sometimes when you’re in pain or sick or upset... but, hey, you’re always a brat. It’s not... it doesn’t mean that any part of this is your fault. It’s just you being you, healthy or sick or anything in between. You’re young, so of course you can be kind of...” She coughed delicately, but it wasn’t enough to cover up the way that Claudia could tell she wanted to say _‘stupid’_. “...immature sometimes. But, hey, so can Pete. And, as I think the last few days have demonstrated, so can Artie... or me, or HG, or anyone. Pretty sure even Mrs Frederic has days when she feels like crap.”

Claudia giggled. It felt pretty good.

“Point is,” Myka pressed, before Claudia could get carried away with that mental image. “It happens to all of us. We’re all subject to the same basic human faults, Claud. Doesn’t mean we should be held to blame when unfortunate or unpleasant things happen to us.”

“I just...” She sighed. “I didn’t want to freak you out. I didn’t mean to. I... I wanted you to be there.” She swallowed, and her throat hurt. “I really, really wanted you to be there, Myka...”

“I know you did,” Myka said sadly. The honesty in her voice was like a physical blow, worse even than the tightness in her throat. “I know you wanted me there. And it’s not your fault that I wasn’t.”

Claudia breathed in slowly, shakily. “It wasn’t your fault, either,” she said, and hearing the words cut through the air, seeing them reach Myka, the expression shifting on her face, calmed her somewhat. “Wasn’t your fault you freaked out. Wasn’t your fault you had to go back to London. None of it was your fault.”

Though she must have realised how horrible an idea it was, all Myka could say was, “You’re too young to understand.”

For a moment or two, Claudia couldn’t believe she’d actually said it, and her mouth just sort of hung open in disbelief. Even when she recovered herself, or as much of herself as she ever had possession of, she still couldn’t manage much more than, “Are you serious?”

Myka groaned. “Claud...”

“No. I mean it. Are you serious? Are you... are you seriously freakin’ _serious_?”

“Claudia.” Myka sighed.

“No way!” Claudia cried, and dropped heavily down onto the nearest solid surface. It was a worn-out old bench, slick and damp with rain, but she really didn’t have it in her to care about getting her jeans wet. “You’ve gotta be kidding. You gotta be freakin’ _kidding_ me.” She shook her head, angry and sad and everything in between, all at once. “I’m the one who almost _died_ , Myka, in case you forgot that part. I kind of think that maybe I’m the one who kinda sorta totally _does_ understand this crap.”

“Claud,” Myka said again. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant...”

“Oh, I get what you ‘meant’,” Claudia growled.

She was too far gone to listen to reason now, too far gone to listen to anything at all. Like it wasn’t bad enough that she’d had to get sick at all, now she had to sit there and nod and smile while Myka told her that that didn’t matter – that nothing she did or thought or felt or said mattered at all – because, at the end of the day, she was still too much of a kid to understand anything anyway. That Myka really thought that, that she really looked at her and saw some dumb, stupid, ignorant little kid... that was just not cool. It was really, really not cool.

“I so freakin’ totally get it, Myka,” she went on. “I get it. So, like, don’t waste your breath trying to, y’know, educate me or whatever. I get—”

“Claudia, stop!” Myka barked, so sharply that it almost hurt. “Okay? Just stop. You know what I meant. You _know_.”

“No,” Claudia replied, horrified to find herself on the brink of tears. Not in front of Myka, though. No way, no how, no freakin’ chance. She would not cry in front of her. “No, Myka, I don’t _know_. The only thing I ‘know’ is that I get stuff. I understand stuff, whether you wanna accept that or not. I get stuff, and I understand stuff, and you can’t... I won’t... I’m not gonna let you undo that, or make it mean less, just because I’m...”

She couldn’t finish. Not without crying, and she wouldn’t let that happen. Myka was not going to see her cry, dammit. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Myka seemed to be struggling as well (not that Claudia would let herself care about what she was doing). She kept saying her name, over and over again, in about six or seven different ways, but never actually adding anything to it or making words that might actually constitute a sentence or an apology, or anything at all. If Claudia cared enough to wonder what she was trying to say, it might have been frustrating, but as it was, she just wished that Myka would stop saying her name, or at least have the basic common decency to turn away or something so that Claudia could stop having to try so hard not to freaking cry.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of awkwardness and mumbling repetitions of Claudia’s name, Myka seemed to pull herself together, and Claudia flinched at the unwanted contact of slim fingers wrapping around her wrist.

“Claud,” she said again, but this Claudia could tell that she was definitely going to follow it with actual words. She closed her eyes, shook her head, did everything she could to preclude it, but Myka was nothing if not determined when she’d set her mind on something, and this was no exception. “Claudia. Hey. Hey. I respect you. As a Warehouse apprentice, as a young woman, as a human being. I respect you, Claud, and everything you are, and don’t you ever think otherwise.”

“Would it kill ya to show it once in a while?” Claudia muttered, a juvenile grumble, but she could feel herself softening even as she tried so hard not to.

“Probably,” Myka replied, and shrugged. “But I do, okay? And, okay, so maybe I say stupid things sometimes, when I’m so worried about you that I can’t think straight. And sometimes you say stupid things, too, and you don’t always have that excuse. So I screwed up, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, and you know it. Okay?” Claudia nodded, and Myka’s lips split into a smile. “There’s no need to get all _Claudia_ about it.”

“That’s a low blow, dude,” Claudia huffed. “And so totally not fair, either.”

Myka chuckled, apparently sensing the breaking of the tension, and Claudia whined as she felt their shoulders bump in exactly the way she’d failed to pull off herself earlier. “I think it’s entirely fair,” Myka said, and there was a hint of mischief in her voice. “You’re not the only one who gets to steal Pete-isms, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I should be,” Claudia muttered, but she let her body shift about a half of an inch closer to Myka’s. “There’s gotta be some perks to being ‘too young’ to do anything else, right?”

The silence, almost comfortable now, lasted only a moment or two; really, Claudia supposed she should have expected it. Myka was hardly one to sit in a room and just enjoy the moment, much less to sit outdoors and do the same. She was an ‘all action scenes, no white space’ kind of girl, and that meant that anyone in her company had to be that way too. Claudia ordinarily wouldn’t have minded being her guinea pig for needless talking (after all, the more that Myka talked, the less Claudia would have to) but right now she just didn’t want to talk about the things that Myka clearly did. She really, _really_ didn’t want to talk about them.

“Claud,” Myka said again, and rushed on before Claudia had a chance to say _“oh my God, stop saying my name!”_. “You... you _are_ doing okay, right? I mean... y’know, you’re really, actually okay? And, uh... I mean...” She took a deep breath, and Claudia willed herself to look up at her. “Look, it’s just us here. Just you and me... well, and that tree over there, but I really don’t think it’s going to judge you for anything you say. And I know I won’t. So if... I mean... if there’s anything you need to...”

“Why would there be?” Claudia demanded, instantly on the defensive, albeit mostly keeping her aggression in check (at least, for now). “I’m fine. I’m better now. I’m good, I’m cool, I’m awesome. I’m like... you know what? I am so, so totally ready to go back out into the field now. Like, so totally ready. So, like, if you need backup, or if HG still isn’t allowed to go out with you, or if Pete overdoses on donuts again, or whatever...” She gestured, flailing just a little, and Myka had to duck to keep from being decapitated. “Like, I could so be your girl.”

“You ‘so’ could not,” Myka argued, but there was an unuttered sigh in her voice. “But that’s not what I meant, Claud...”

Claudia knew that perfectly well, but she had no intention of letting Myka see that; admitting that she knew why Myka was worried would be like admitting there was something to worry about in the first place. It would be like saying, _“so, hey, that thing you’re worried about? it’s so totally a thing you need to worry about!”_ , and she was no more going to let that happen than she would let Myka see her cry. She had standards to maintain, after all, critical and important standards, and she sure as hell was not about to offer any more fuel for the ‘you’re too young!’ bonfire that she had apparently thrown herself on.

“I’m okay,” she said again, but she could feel the tremor in her throat and knew that Myka would hear it in her voice.

“Okay,” Myka replied softly. “HG was just a little worried about you, that’s all. She said you had a pretty rough time.”

Claudia shrugged. It was getting more and more difficult to play the ambivalence, and so she stumbled awkwardly to her feet to try and diffuse some of the nervous energy that was twitching behind her joints by turning a half-circle and walking onwards.

“I don’t even remember it,” she muttered, keeping her face turned away so that Myka wouldn’t see the lie in her eyes.

Without hesitation, Myka followed her, gliding upright with the kind of gracefulness that told Claudia she must have been spending an awful lot of time with HG to have so picked up her habits. Claudia was stomping in the most random direction she could find, one that led her away from the non-judgemental tree that Myka had so thoughtfully pointed out, and huffed an irritable sigh at the telltale sound of boots striding after her.

“Are you sure?” Myka asked, lowering a heavy hand to her shoulder, like she could stop Claudia running away, or slow her down, by the raw weight of her palm. “You really don’t remember anything at all?”

“I was freakin’ delirious, Myka. Jeez. You try remembering what crap you were thinking when your body’s trying to kill you. It’s not like in the movies.”

Myka drew up level with her, and her eyes were hooded, like she was hearing everything she didn’t want to hear, even though the words themselves were saying everything she did. “You remembered me running away,” she prompted gently. “You remembered wanting me there, and feeling bad when I wasn’t.” She shrugged, dismissing the point before Claudia could try to defend it, then let go of her shoulder. “You remember that part clearly enough. So, maybe there’s some other stuff that you might remember as well?”

_Yeah, right,_ Claudia thought bitterly. Because it would be so freaking easy to talk to Myka about that, wouldn’t it? _‘Oh, sure, Myka, just some voices in my head telling me that nothing’s real. Oh, yeah, but it’s no big deal, is it, ’cause I’m healthy again now and the artefact’s all snagged and bagged and tagged and everything’s all awesome again, and I shouldn’t still be feeling like it’s not. ’Cause I’m supposed to be telling you that I’m not a little kid, I’m an adult. And adults aren’t scared of that stuff, are they? You wouldn’t be, would you?’_

The problem was, even though she didn’t say it – she couldn’t say it, and she wouldn’t have even if she could – Myka could sense it. Or, at the very least, she could sense something, because she got right up in Claudia’s face, leaned in close, took Claudia’s hand in hers like she’d somehow asked for the comfort, and gave it a light squeeze; the gesture was almost enough to spark a resurgence of the tears Claudia still hadn’t let fall, and she found herself breathing hard to keep them at bay. Myka was relentless, though, doing all the things she thought she’d failed to do when Claudia had been sick, trying so hard to be the supportive figure that she thought Claudia needed, and there was no fighting that. Even if she’d been super-strong, super-brave, super-awesome... even if she’d been everything in the whole universe that she wanted to be, Claudia couldn’t fight that, couldn’t fight Myka and her big eyes and her worried face and the way she looked at her and the way she talked.

“No judgment, Claud. Just you and me.”

“Stop it,” Claudia snarled. Or tried to snarl; what came out was more like a sniffle. “Just shut up, Myka, okay? Just shut up!” She swallowed, willed herself to harness the strength she’d never had to begin with. “When I say I’m okay, it means that I’m okay. So quit... quit looking for other stuff just ’cause HG said it might be there. Jeez, if she told you to go jump off a cliff, would you do that, too?”

“Right now? Probably.” Myka shrugged, good-natured but serious, and then grimaced. “Claud, I’m not interrogating you, okay? This isn’t some kind of inquisition or intervention, or anything like that. I’m not accusing you of anything, and I’m not suggesting something might be wrong. If it’s not, it’s not. I’m just asking. No presuppositions, no ulterior motives, nothing. HG spent the most time with you while you were unwell, and she’s worried about you, so I just wanted to ask you and see how you’re feeling. _You_ , Claud. I’m asking you, because I want to hear the answer from you. Not from HG, or anyone else. I trust HG, you know that... but you went through it, not her. And if you say you’re okay – if you say it and you really mean it – then I’ll believe you. No matter what HG, or anyone else, says. I’ll believe you.”

“You better,” Claudia muttered, but she could already feel herself starting to lose it.

Empathy was always her undoing, every damn time, and she could feel the truth sharpening its claws to tear its way free of her. Her lower lip trembled, and she knew that Myka would pick up on it; she tried to pre-empt it by saying “I’m fine” again (and then again and again, as many times as it would take to make it stick), but it was utterly futile. The tears were going to come, and she wouldn’t be able to hold them at bay, no matter how desperately her entire self insisted it would not cry in front of Myka.

“Claud...” Myka pressed, fretfully urgent, clearly sensing the imminent breakdown. “C’mon. It’s just us. No-one else.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, over and over until the words lost what tiny fragment of meaning they might once have held, as if they’d ever even been true anyway. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

But she wasn’t. And they both knew it.

“Claudia.”

“I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m... I’m...”

Myka took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “You’re not, Claud. You’re not fine, and you’re not okay. And I’m not saying that because HG told me to. Believe me, I don’t want to say it at all. But I am. Because it’s right there, Claud... and you’re too far gone to try and hide it, and that...” She tilted Claudia’s chin up, made their eyes meet, if only for a moment. “That means I can’t hide from it either.”

Claudia shook. “It’s nothing. It’s no big thing, Myka, I swear. It’s just...” She swallowed. “I just hate it. I hate what that stupid artefact did to me.” The words lashed against her back, tightening her muscles and making every inch of her shake, but she closed her eyes against the pain and urged herself on. “I hate that it... I hate that it’s not...”

“Simple?” Myka suggested, trying way too hard to be helpful.

“ _Over_ ,” Claudia whispered, and the confession tore right into the soul of her, twisted it all up, and wrung out the tears. “...I hate that it’s not over.”

Her knees buckled, and she dropped into a clumsy crouch before Myka had a chance to offer her some support. She wouldn’t let herself be held upright, wouldn’t let Myka see that she might be in need – not of anything, least of all comfort – and crouching uncomfortably on the rain-wet ground, holding herself up almost by force of will alone was a way better option than seeing the concern in the eyes of the one person who wasn’t allowed to feel that way. Not Myka. Not her. HG could sympathise, and Pete could empathise, Artie could worry about her and Leena could read her... but not Myka. Never Myka.

Myka wasn’t allowed to feel things for her. She wasn’t allowed to look at her and see the things she had inside her. She wasn’t allowed to feel the way HG felt about her or see the things that Leena saw. She wasn’t allowed to understand the way that Pete understood, to know by her own experiences what Claudia was going through. She wasn’t allowed to look at her like she was looking at her right now.

She turned her face away, looked down at the wet dirt beneath her knees. It wouldn’t stop Myka thinking all those things, Claudia knew, but at least this way she didn’t have to see it.

“Claud,” Myka sounded helpless, almost on the edge of fearful.

“Shut up,” Claudia forced out again. “I’m not crying. Shut up.”

To her credit, even if it was a little too late, Myka actually did shut up. Claudia felt her squat down beside her, close but not quite touching, and heard the way she breathed without talking, knew – because she knew Myka – how hard it must have been to keep her mouth shut, to not do or say anything when the situation so clearly called for some kind of action, and was all the more grateful for it, knowing as she did how completely it went against the grain.

It would have meant less from Pete, she thought fuzzily, and thinking about it helped to ground her. Pete automatically knew what to do with her, instinctively responded in the right way, trusting to his intuition or his vibes, whichever hit him first. Myka never did. She always chose the wrong thing, trying too much or pushing too hard or doing any one of a thousand things that meant she and Claudia would clash in all the worst ways... and so, in moments like this, when she went against her own instincts to do the right thing, when she almost physically forced herself to do what Claudia needed her to and not what she herself wanted to do... yeah, it mattered. It mattered a whole lot, and Claudia let herself bask in the blaze of her efforts, in the comforting knowledge that she wasn’t the only one straining against her own nature just then, in knowing that Myka was struggling too, every bit as hard as she herself was.

She recovered herself before the flurry of tears could drive her into flat-out sobbing (because, if that had happened, she would never forgive herself, or show her face in front of Myka again), and, when they finally settled, she raised her face and scowled.

“You don’t have to get in all close,” she groused, though she knew Myka wouldn’t buy it for a second. “I’m not gonna, like, pass out or anything. God, Myka, don’t people need room to breathe on whatever planet you’re from?” That, she realised a moment or three too late, was probably somewhat uncalled for, and she felt the flush stain her cheeks and give her away before she could force her face to shape itself into conviction. “I mean, uh...”

“Uh huh,” Myka replied, and it was a toss-up whether she was too empathetic or too worried to take offence; Claudia wasn’t sure which of the two sentiments would be more annoying, so she tried not to think about it too hard. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Claudia said, angling her face towards the ground, letting the shadows shield her from the look on Myka’s face, the look that said she wouldn’t back down no matter how hard Claudia kicked and scratched against her. “I’m fine. I just... I’m... I’m not...”

“Claud,” Myka sighed, very softly. “You’ve been affected by an artefact. That artefact made you very, very ill. You yourself admitted you were delirious, and we both know how badly that can mess with your head. It’s completely okay if you’re still feeling a little...”

“...fucked up?” Claudia asked.

Myka winced, and it was more telling than anything she could have said that she didn’t complain at her language.

“Sure,” she managed instead.

They stayed that way for a moment or two, the half-inch of space between them gaping huge and wide like a fully-formed chasm, until, with a deep shuddering breath, Claudia closed it by leaning in for a one-armed hug. Myka returned the gesture with both arms, warm and open, and despite herself Claudia buried her face in the collar of her shirt. She refused to let herself cry again (not that she’d even really been crying before anyway, but whatever), but allowed herself to drink down the warmth and the familiarity of Myka’s embrace, soaking it all up like sunshine.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “God, Myka. I... I’m really sorry...”

“You don’t need to be,” Myka told her. “You’re doing just fine.”

“I’m not, though,” Claudia confessed, taking more comfort in how muffled the words were from this position, and the irrational hope that Myka wouldn’t be able to make them out at all, than in the admitting of them in the first place. “I can’t... I...” She shook her head, pressed in real tight, breathed in and hated herself. “I can’t deal, Myka. I really, really can’t deal.”

Myka didn’t say anything. She didn’t try to convince her that she could deal, or that she would be all right. She was, in a lot of ways, exactly the opposite of what HG had been. Where HG had tried so hard to nurture, to make Claudia feel safe and protected and cared for and nurtured, to make her feel like she would be _all right_ , even when everything was cracking and breaking and tearing apart all around her, even when the world itself made no sense at all and her mind was split wide open, Myka would not.

She was more like Pete, at least in that she wouldn’t lie; she wouldn’t offer hollow promises or empty reassurances, not if her heart wasn’t in them completely. For all that she insisted Claudia was ‘too young’ – too young to be a proper agent, too young to learn dangerous skills, too young to go on real missions, too young to understand... too freakin’ young for everything imaginable – she didn’t patronise her. If she thought she was too young, she would say so, even as she knew perfectly well how Claudia would react to hearing it. And, in the same vein, she would not lie to her. If she didn’t know, for sure and beyond all doubt, that things would be all right, then she sure as hell wasn’t going to say that they would.

And, somehow, Claudia found that almost more comforting than HG and her promises. At least, right now, when she couldn’t feel all right, couldn’t remember what ‘all right’ felt like at all. She was drowning right now, losing herself, and Myka wasn’t going to tell her that there was land on the horizon if she couldn’t see it for herself. She wasn’t going to pretend, and she didn’t expect Claudia to, either. And that meant a lot. It meant everything. Most of all, it meant that she wasn’t letting her down by feeling this way. It meant that she wasn’t going to be a disappointment if it turned out that maybe she wasn’t all right.

...well, maybe. It was kind of hard to stay focused on that part when she was falling to pieces, but she tried. All she could ever do was try.

Myka gave her a couple of minutes to pull herself together, to recover her strength after shouldering the weight that she must have realised the confession had put on her, then drew gently back. She still didn’t say anything, just pushed Claudia’s hair back with both hands, holding it behind her and looked right into her face like she did sometimes when she didn’t know whether it was the right call to say something or not.

“I’m sorry,” Claudia mumbled, trying to hide her face again, and failing when Myka refused to let her. “I just...”

“Don’t,” Myka told her, driven from her silence by the need to make Claudia see what was so obvious to her. “Claudia, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Okay? There is nothing wrong with feeling the way you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” Claudia confessed, a ragged whine. “That’s the worst part, Myka. I don’t even _know_.”

Myka offered a tight smile. “Do you want me to tell you, then?”

It was the worst humiliation that Claudia could think of – having her own feelings explained to her by the one person that she had tried so desperately to keep from seeing anything at all. It was worse than HG’s desperate insistences that she was and would be ‘all right’, worse than Pete saying to her face that he didn’t know, that he couldn’t say when she’d feel better or even if she would. It was worse than everything, all of it, because this was _Myka_. Myka, who was awesome and epic, Myka, who had tried so patiently to teach her how to be half so epic as she was, who had helped her and honed her and schooled her... Myka, the one person out of all of them who would never have done something like this. Myka, who was too cool and too strong and too brave to ever fall victim to an artefact.

Of all the people in the world, Myka was the last one Claudia would have wanted to have to explain this stuff to her, the last one she wanted to depend on. Her psyche was a twisted place, she knew that, and Myka was the one person in the world she didn’t want to see that. She wanted Myka to see her as someone who might one day stand by her side, who might one day evolve into an equal. Not this, a hopeless little girl who couldn’t even make sense of her own thoughts. She couldn’t bear the thought that Myka – of all people, _Myka_! – might be able to cut through the chaos in her head and see what was inside.

Still, though, she nodded, turned her face away and whispered “please...” so softly that it was barely audible. Because she had to hear the words. Even if it was from Myka, the one person she didn’t want to ever understand, she needed to hear them.

“You’re not as good at hiding as you think you are,” Myka told her; she spoke gently, kind and unassuming, but it was just about the most not-at-all-comforting thing Claudia had ever heard in her entire life. “Claud, we all know the things you’ve been through. You know that, right? We all know where you’ve been and what happened there, and nobody – nobody, Claud, not one of us – thinks less of you for any of that stuff.”

Claudia opened her mouth, even now feeling compelled to play dumb and ask what Myka was talking about, really make her spell it the hell out, but Myka wasn’t going to let her pretend that the things she hated most about herself weren’t right out there in the open. She wasn’t going to let her hide behind her pride and her attitude and her pretences of savvy. They all knew what was there, what Claudia had once been, where she’d ended up and what had been done to her, and Myka wasn’t going to let her pretend that this conversation wasn’t about the very worst parts of that.

“You _know_ what I’m talking about, Claud,” she pre-empted, but didn’t say the words themselves. “And there’s no shame in it. You shouldn’t feel like you’re only allowed to talk about this stuff if you’re sick or delirious or half-asleep, or—”

“I don’t!” Claudia cried, feeling obligated to argue even as they both knew that Myka’s accusations held real weight. “I don’t feel that way, Myka. I don’t feel like it’s some kind of... like it’s _taboo_ or something, like it’ll make you guys blush or whatever. I don’t keep my mouth shut for you, Myka, I do it for me.” She shut her eyes against the wave of emotion that tightened in her throat, cutting off her words for a moment or two. “I don’t talk about it because I don’t _want_ to. Okay? I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t even want to remember it ever happened at all.”

She buried her face back in Myka’s shirt, pretended that she wasn’t there, that this was all just a fantasy, that she was really just talking to herself. But Myka was there, and there was no hiding from that, not when her hands were still in her hair, trailing lightly through the tangles, arms tucked under Claudia’s shoulders, holding her and supporting her and all around her.

“It’s okay,” she was saying, but it didn’t sound at all like when HG said it. Myka wasn’t saying the wordsto be convincing or reassuring, wasn’t trying to give an illusion of strength or promise. She was saying it because she didn’t have anything else. “It’s okay, Claud, it’s okay.”

Claudia sniffled into the fabric of her shirt. “You guys are the best thing... the best thing that’s ever, ever happened to me. The best thing, Myka. And every day, I think... I think, this can’t be real. You guys can’t be real, because I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve the Warehouse or Artie or you or Pete or Leena or anything. I don’t deserve you guys or this place or this world or anything in it. _I don’t deserve it_. So it can’t be real. It just... it can’t be. People like me don’t get to live in a world like this. People like me don’t get to hang with people like you. It’s not possible, Myka, it’s just not possible. And then I remember... I remember being crazy, or thinking I was crazy... being in that place, and everyone telling me I was nuts, that it was all a delusion, that I was losing it... and I believed it, Myka, I really thought I was crazy... and I just... sometimes it’s like...”

“...what if you still are?” Myka finished for her. Claudia nodded, the motion lost along with the tears to the shirt pressed against her face, and she felt much too closely the way that Myka’s chest heaved as she sighed. “You don’t deserve it, so maybe it’s not really real at all.”

“I know it’s nuts,” Claudia said, and hoped that Myka wouldn’t notice the way her shirt was getting suspiciously soaked. “I know that. But that doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it feel even worse when it won’t.”

Myka sighed again, but made to attempt to disentangle Claudia from her shirt. Claudia could feel the tension in her, every muscle taut and rigid and not at all gentle as she held her close, saying her name over and over again like it was the only thing she could remember how to say (and, because it was Myka... not HG or Pete, but Myka, who was no more built for these kinds of moments than Claudia was, maybe it really was all she had in her). Claudia wanted to draw solace from that, to let the sound of her name be enough, to let the cadence of Myka’s voice ground her in the world she loved, the place she so desperately wanted to belong, to let the emotion rippling through both their bodies be enough to bring her home.

But it wasn’t. Because, of course, nothing would be. There wasn’t anything that Myka could say that would fix the things that were wrong with Claudia, the parts of her mind that were broken and damaged, the things she thought and felt and tried so hard not to believe, the pieces of her that were wrong. Myka couldn’t undo the memories, the skittering spiders of that other world, the visions of reality that the fever had brought out so inescapably in her, and there wasn’t anything that she herself could do to silence the voices now either. Not now that they’d found themselves, not now that they were free.

Neither of them could do anything, and that was why she shouldn’t have said anything. She should have kept her mouth shut, kept everything inside, just like she always did. She should have stood fast to her convictions, insisted that she was fine, said it over and over and over again until they were the only words either of them could hear. She should have insisted that HG was wrong, should have driven it down and down, right into Myka’s chest, until she had no choice but to believe it. And she should have believed it herself, too. She should have taken the words by the throat, swallowed the conviction down until it choked her, until it was so deep inside her it could never come back out. She should have made the words true, not ever admit that they weren’t. She should have been _all right_.

But she wasn’t, and she wouldn’t be, and there was nothing that Myka could do to change that.

Finally, when she was just about done sniffling and whimpering all over Myka’s shirt without actually feeling any better for it, she pulled her head up. “Think we should go back now,” she mumbled. “They’ll all be, like, worried and stuff.”

“Let them worry,” Myka said gently, and let her fingertips slide down to rest at Claudia’s back. “It doesn’t matter how they’re feeling. It matters how _you’re_ feeling. We can stay here all day and all night if that’s what you want us to do. We don’t have to go anywhere until you want to.”

Claudia shook her head, and climbed shakily to her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she braced herself against her knees and refused to let her muscles give way. “We should go,” she said again, voice little more than a thick rasp after all the not-crying she’d done. “I... I’m kind of hungry.”

“You’re also kind of lying,” Myka observed airily, but the smile on her face as she stood up as well was entirely false. “But we can go back if you like. It’s warmer indoors, and I’m sure we can get Leena to make you some soup or something.”

Claudia spun on her heels, mostly (if not entirely) managing to keep from falling over, and jammed her hands in her pockets as she stalked back towards the B&B. She felt worse than useless, wretched and utterly pathetic; she hadn’t helped herself at all by saying all of those things, and now Myka probably thought she was a crazy person, too. More than she already did, even... if such a thing was even possible by now. She’d screwed up again, and now Myka could see exactly how weak she was.

Myka didn’t say anything, though. She just followed her as she stumbled onwards, keeping a few paces behind with obvious deliberateness. Claudia was sure it was an attempt to give her some ‘space’ or some other such crap, but it really just made it look like she felt awkward and didn’t know what to say or what to do with herself. It made the space between them feel like it was more than it really was, like everything was a gaping chasm, and Myka was on one side with HG and everyone else, and Claudia was on the other with only herself and her legs to outrun the bolts of electricity coming up behind her. Which, of course, just made her feel even more awful about the whole thing than she already was. And it wasn’t really Myka’s fault – it really, really wasn’t; she couldn’t win, no matter what she tried to do – but that didn’t make Claudia feel less awful or less isolate or less anything, and it didn’t take back the words that were out there now, or the humiliation and fear and pain that had gone with them, all tied up and impossible to pick apart from each other.

It was on the brink of raining again when they got back to the B&B, but Claudia still hesitated just outside the front door. She made a big show of fumbling for her keys and exaggerating her impatience, making a big show of how it wasn’t deliberate. The truth was, though (and she had no doubt that Myka knew it), she just wasn’t ready to go back in yet; the thought of having to face Pete’s big-brother grin or Leena’s too-warm smile or HG’s quiet know-it-all concern made her stomach churn and lurch all over again, like she’d never gotten well at all. She felt sick with anxiety, and wanted nothing more than to run away again and hide from them forever. Especially HG. More than Pete who knew better than to press her, or Leena who never knew when to stop talking but never about what was important, more even than Artie with his disappointed fatherly scowl, it was the thought of HG that turned her stomach sour and her chest brittle. HG, with all her empathy and all her concern, who worried too much. No... who _understood_ too much. 

“Here...” Myka said, apparently wanting to put her out of her misery and open the door herself and Claudia almost fell over in her rush to stop her. Myka blinked, studied her, evidently sensing the unease in her but unable to place its cause, or how to chase it away. “Claud?”

“Don’t, Myka,” she said; it was supposed to be a command, an instruction – _I’ll do this when I’m ready_ – but it came out as a plea. “Just give me a sec, ’kay? Just a sec. I...”

“Okay.” Slowly, still uncertain, Myka lowered her arm, letting it brush tellingly against the outside of Claudia’s jacket as she drew back. “All right.”

“All right...” Claudia mumbled, clinging to those two words like they held the answer to every question that had ever been asked, every problem that had ever come into being, like they could somehow chase away everything that was wrong with her if only she could repeat them enough times. “Yeah. All right. All right.”

“All right,” Myka echoed, apparently realising that they meant something to Claudia, even as she couldn’t quite figure out what or why.

“Tell her that,” Claudia whispered; her voice was barely even audible any more, and it was a miracle that Myka could hear her at all.

Myka frowned, clearly worried, but not wanting to actually say so. “Claud, you’re not making any sense. Tell who what?”

Claudia groaned, frustrated and angry even as she knew that it would take a mind-reader to know what she was thinking. Her thoughts were so feverish, though, so wild and feral that it was all she could do to keep them in her head at all, much less reshape them into something that made sense for someone else. But Myka was trying to understand, looking at her with eyes so wide with concern and the quietly-pulsing need to help, and Claudia felt so bad for making her look like that, but it was all so very important and she couldn’t bear the thought of all this time wasted in having to explain it.

“HG!” she cried, trying to hold the impatience at bay. “ _HG_ , Myka! Tell her that I’m all right.”

Myka blinked, tangibly baffled, and the sincerity of the confusion clouding her face was almost painful to behold. “Why?” she asked softly, and it broke Claudia’s heart that she truly didn’t know.

How was that even possible?, she wondered How could someone like Myka not know? Myka, who was so intimate, so close to HG, so much closer than Claudia herself was. How could she, of all people, not see what was so obvious? How could she not know, not get, not understand how deeply this whole horrible situation had cut for both of them, how personal it was for HG, every bit as much as it was for Claudia? How could Myka be looking at her now, after hearing all of those words, the stuttered, useless, hopeless confessions, and still not understand that it wasn’t just about her?

How was it that Claudia, who didn’t even understand her own twisted-up mind, could make sense of this where Myka could not? How was it possible that she – the least insightful person in the known universe, and all the more so now that the world she knew had been knocked so completely off its axis – could see right into the depths of HG’s heart and soul? How could she see the torment and the conflict and the pain in her as surely as she could feel it within herself, when Myka – the smart one, the observant one – couldn’t see anything at all? How was it that Claudia could understand without a second thought why her imaginary all-right-ness was so important to HG, and Myka, who knew HG almost as well as she knew herself, didn’t? How?!

She wanted to explain it, wanted so desperately for Myka to see what she saw, to know what she knew, to understand why HG understood... but she couldn’t.

She couldn’t make Myka see this any more than she could have made a blind man see anything at all. She couldn’t explain what it meant, how it felt, what it was like. She couldn’t explain that HG understood her, and so she understood HG in turn, that they were so similar, so painfully similar, that their psyches were torn up in the same places, branded with the same scars, twisted in the same ways. She couldn’t make Myka understand how important it was to HG, how crucial it was that she be okay... that, even after everything she’d been through, everything HG had witnessed in her, even thought they’d both know it was a lie, that Claudia had to be _all right_. She couldn’t explain any of that, not to Myka. She could barely even articulate her own pain; how could she ever voice HG’s?

So, instead, she just said the only thing she could: “Because she needs me to be.”


	16. Chapter 16

By the time Claudia finally allowed them to actually step into the warmth of the B&B, they were soaked through with rain and Helena was nowhere to be seen.

Had she been in a less affectionate mood, Myka would have been annoyed, mildly aggravated that her chance to talk to Helena had been whisked away, but Claudia was already looking so ridiculously sorry for herself that she almost couldn’t bear to inflict any more guilt on her. If there was one thing she understood all too well after the last few days, it was guilt. Besides, she was slowly coming to discover, it was really quite impossible to be annoyed with Claudia at all when she got _that look_ on her face. Or, at least, to stay that way for more than eight seconds at a time. She had no idea how Artie managed it.

Pete was in his room, sprawled untidily across his (perpetually unmade) bed and reading a comic-book. He’d left the door open, probably on purpose, so that he couldn’t possibly miss their return, and shouted a greeting at them as they passed. Myka squinted at his choice of supposed ‘intellectual stimulation’, trying to make out the subject; she was pretty sure he’d told her, no doubt at length, about this particular superhero, but all that she could remember was how much he loved the colour green... but then, didn’t they all?

He waved at them with his usual boundless enthusiasm, but made no effort to get up from where he was clearly comfortable (albeit miraculously so; his room was like a farmyard). Myka, for her part, was quite happy with the way he didn’t make any move to join them; she loved Pete dearly, she really did, but there were times, not unlike this one, where she found that it was much better – and safer – to love him from a distance. The greater the distance, the greater the love, in fact. And, to his credit, the big lummox did seem to understand that (even as he failed to understand such concepts as what actually constituted acceptable reading material), and dutifully stayed where he was.

Ever one to feign courage and bravado even when she was feeling exactly the opposite, Claudia countered Pete’s greeting with an exaggerated hand-gesture of her own, an anarchic-looking symbol marked by spread fingers; on trawling through her memory, Myka recognised the gesture from the quite ridiculous number of music videos that Claudia and Pete would watch into the early hours of the morning, but she decided not to ruin her brain by thinking too hard about its meaning. Something youthful and obnoxious, she was sure, and left it at that.

“What up, Lattimer?” Claudia grunted.

Pete shrugged, and shot her a smirk. “All tired out from worrying about your sorry little butt,” he retorted. “Go back to bed, already.”

“Yes,” Myka said, adopting the most authoritative tone she had because at least one of the three of them had to. “That’s exactly where she’s going. Right now.”

“Okay, jeez,” Claudia groused loudly, and to anyone who wasn’t Myka, the act would have been perfectly convincing. “I’m goin’, I’m goin’...”

“Yeah, you’d better be,” Pete grunted, nodding his approval at Myka, though she could tell that his precious comic-book had already commandeered his attention once again, and so (making a very conscious point of not bidding him farewell) she heaved an aggravated sigh at his rudeness, and gave Claudia a gentle shove towards her room.

The room in question, as it turned out, was already occupied. Ever the hard-working proprietor, Leena was taking advantage of its emptiness to change Claudia’s bedding and turn down the mattress and (no doubt) various other things that Myka was sure Claudia didn’t think to do for herself. At the sound of Claudia’s indignant yelp of “I’m _going_ , oh my God, quit pushing!”, she glanced up, lips quirking with faintly-repressed amusement.

“Welcome back,” she said

“Sup,” Claudia muttered again, looking moodily around. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

Leena laughed, all bright eyes and brighter smile, and exactly the kind of warmth that Myka really needed just then. She could tell, though, that she was a little put out by their decision to return before she was finished with her labours. It wasn’t unlike the way she always scowled just a little on those rare occasions when Myka herself had the audacity to return to her room before Leena was quite finished tidying it. She was nothing, Myka knew, if not protective of her standards.

“I didn’t touch anything,” she promised Claudia, who grunted her approval. “And I’ll be out of your way in a couple of minutes. I’m just about done here, anyway.”

“There’s no hurry,” Myka said, ignoring the way Claudia huffed and leaned against the wall, making a show of petulance that was so transparent she must have known both of her present companions would see through it in a heartbeat. “She’s not exactly thrilled by the prospect of going back to bed, anyway, so any excuse to stay out of it is good, as far as she’s concerned. Right, Claud?”

Claudia muttered something impolite under her breath, but didn’t argue the point. Myka considered that a victory, if a minor one, and decided not to push fate by saying anything more.

“It’s hardly surprising,” Leena said, studying Claudia even as she continued to labour effortlessly over the bed; Myka could only wish that one day she too would be half so skilled at multi-tasking. “You don’t like being stuck in the same place for too long, do you?” Claudia huffed and turned her face away for a beat or two; when she looked back, she was glaring, but Leena refused to let her spirits be dampened by that. “Can I get either of you anything?”

Claudia made a show of looking thoughtful, though Myka could tell she was doing anything but thinking. “I’m pretty hungry.”

“You’re not,” Leena replied, visibly amused. “But I’ll see what I can do. You want some soup?”

Claudia huffed again, but said nothing. Myka sighed, and nudged her with her foot, telling her to be nice without having to say the words. She knew better than to think that Leena would be offended, of course, but Claudia needed to learn that bad attitude brought with it discipline, whether it was needed or not. 

“She’d love some soup,” she said on Claudia’s behalf, then nudged her again. “Wouldn’t you, Claud?”

“I guess.”

Claudia stalked over to the bed as soon as Leena was finished with it, looking pointedly dissatisfied, but – for once – not actively complaining about anything. Not that that was enough to keep her from bouncing restlessly on the mattress like a sulky teenager, of course, but at least the bouncing was better than a mouthful of whining. And (not that Myka would ever admit to thinking it, at least not in a room where Claudia could hear her) there was something quite irresistibly endearing in the ridiculous amount of infantile joy that she took in messing up the newly-made bed.

“Claudia,” Leena warned; she wasn’t entirely serious, Myka could tell, but there was some kind of comfort to be drawn from the normalcy of a little chastisement. “Don’t jump on the bed.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, coming to a stop and staring down at the rain-muddied holes in her jeans.

For a moment or two, she didn’t do or say anything, and when she finally looked up again, the petulance was gone, and in its place was a kind of sheepish apology. Myka knew better than to expect an _‘I’m sorry’_ to actually leave her mouth, and she was sure that Leena knew better too, but still she took a step forward, one hand extended.

“Claudia?”

“Yeah,” Claudia said, as though Leena had actually asked her a question. “Uh, soup would be great.” She swallowed, seeming to muster every ounce of energy she had. “...thanks, Leena.”

Myka quirked a brow, stifling a chuckle. “Oh, sure,” she said, playing up the offended disbelief because she knew it would amuse Claudia (who seemed desperately in need of any kind of amusement just then). “I waste half my afternoon because you absolutely had to go outside, and nothing. She fluffs your pillows and makes soup, and suddenly it’s _‘thanks, Leena’_?”

Claudia shrugged, like this was actually acceptable. “I like soup.”

“You see?” Myka said to Leena. “You see the kind of crap I have to put up with round here?” She shook her head, letting the curls frame her face and hide the smile. “She’s even worse than Pete, and I didn’t think that was possible.” Claudia beamed, like that was some kind of compliment, and Myka threw up her hands in disgust. “I really don’t know why I bother.”

“Oh, you love it, really,” Leena challenged, and Myka couldn’t even deny it.

She followed her out into the corridor when she left, though, and Leena must have sensed that there was something unsettled in her, something that wasn’t as cheerful as the banter implied, because she made a point of dragging her feet and giving Myka time to catch up. She was so good at that, so good at gauging and knowing and understanding, at reshaping every inch of her own body into what the others needed. Myka sighed, watching the not-quite-casual tilt of her shoulders, the glide of her step, the way every inch of her was an unspoken invitation for Myka to unburden herself, to relieve her mind of whatever was on it... and, most telling of all, the way that the lines of Leena’s own mouth had suddenly become just a little tighter now that Claudia was safely out of sight.

She was worried, too. And that was never a good sign.

“Could you stay with her?” Myka asked, keeping her voice low even though she knew there was nobody there to listen.

Leena hummed. She half-turned her body, facing Myka as best she could, but didn’t miss a step. “Of course,” she said. Then, keeping her tone deliberately even, careful not to give away anything of what she might or might not have seen in either of their auras, “Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” Myka said, then stopped; out of all of them, Leena was the one person there was seldom, if ever, any real point in lying to. It wasn’t that she could tell if she was (at least, Myka really hoped she couldn’t; at the very least, she’d never actively called her on it), but she had a strange air about her that made Myka feel itchy and uncomfortable whenever she tried to. “Well, you know. Mostly. I mean, she’s okay, I think... it’s just...”

“What?” Leena frowned. “What is it, Myka?”

Myka sighed. Whether she could get away with lying or not, it didn’t matter; Leena cared as much about Claudia as any of them did, and it was only fair that she know as much too. Maybe even more, really, given how complicated their relationship was; Myka hadn’t ever tried to pry into the issues that had weighed heavily over them both following the horrible business with MacPherson – the way he’d used Leena, the way Claudia had taken that as a personal slight, the way they’d clashed, however briefly – but she knew it had affected them both. Leena never let personal conflicts touch her, of course, but Myka would’ve had to be blind to not see the way she was around Claudia since then, the shift in their conversations, the way Leena would frown so much more when Claudia was around than when she wasn’t.

She didn’t need to pry now, either. It was enough to know that Leena cared, and that she had just as much right as any of them to know what Myka knew.

“I just don’t think she should be left alone for too long,” she said, evasive but honest. “She’s been through a lot, even if she won’t admit it, and... well, you know how she reacts to things like this.”

“Like a brat,” Leena confirmed laughingly.

Her mouth split into a smile, bright and sincere, touched with a fondness that said, in no uncertain terms, that – for all their mutual conflicts and issues – she wouldn’t have it any other way. Not with Claudia... though, in truth, Myka couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she wouldn’t find it nearly so cute if she had to deal with it as often the rest of them did.

Still, though, she didn’t say that, just chuckled back and agreed. “Yeah. She’s been pretty unbearable about this. But you know... it’s Claud. It’s just the way she is.”

“Yes.” Leena’s smile lost a hint of its easiness, but it didn’t fade, and she offered a good-natured shrug. “Sure, I’ll stay with her. She’ll whine, but...” She shrugged again, but didn’t finish.

“Thanks,” Myka said. Then, switching tacks with a casualness that was far too casual to be casual, “Hey, have you seen—”

“—HG?” Leena asked, and for about half a second, Myka could have sworn she saw her ever-bright face darken just a little.

“Uh... yeah,” Myka affirmed with a puzzled frown; she knew better than to try and read Leena, or to ask questions about what she was thinking, but she couldn’t hide the curiosity that flared up in her at the sight of the unusual expression. It wasn’t quite hostility, but it was close, and that was more than Myka had ever seen in her before. “I just wanted to thank her. You know, for taking care of Claudia while Pete and I were in London. She really came through for all of us. Especially, Claud, you know, and I just wanted...”

“Of course you did,” Leena said, not quite interrupting, and there was no mistaking the uncharacteristic weight in her tone now. “She went to the Warehouse.”

For a moment, Myka considered asking her about the strange belligerence that seemed to touch both her voice and her posture; Leena was quite probably the most laid-back person she had ever met, and it took a lot to get her really and truly worked up. Even after she’d been used and abused by MacPherson, even after Claudia had tried to drop all of the blame on her shoulders, she hadn’t let any of her own emotions show. At least, not in the places that Myka could see. With that, just as with everything else, she just took a breath, held up her head, and carried on like normal. She just wasn’t the sort of person who got irate.

The thought was fleeting, though, and Myka bit her tongue before the ill-advised question could fall from it. In part because the answer was somewhat – if not entirely – apparent, but mostly because it wasn’t her place to try and change her mind. At least, not right now. Leena wasn’t like Artie. She had her qualms and her doubts and her feelings, and she kept them to herself. And she was entitled to that, entitled to feel whatever she wanted about Helena, just as anyone else in the Warehouse was, without disrupting everyone and everything within a hundred miles. She had her feelings, but they were her own, and that was where they would stay. Myka understood that, and decided grudgingly that there was no need to draw attention to it. Not when she suspected that she already knew what kind of answer she’d get: _“It’s nothing, really; I just don’t trust her.”_

So, instead, she simply thanked her, once for the information and then a second time for agreeing to stay with Claudia, and headed out to the Warehouse.

Again, she found Helena in the HG Wells section. She wasn’t looking at anything, really, wasn’t even pretending to thumb through the manual this time; she was simply gazing thoughtfully at the sparsely-occupied shelves, as though trying to see her own past in the swirls of dust they threw into the air as she trailed her fingertips across their surfaces.

She looked so deep in thought, so sorrowfully contemplative, that Myka almost thought twice about invading her space. She wanted to leave her to her introspection, to let her be alone with her thoughts, whatever they may be – beautiful, she was sure, to have been born in a mind such as HG Wells. She didn’t want to inject herself, to impose her own clumsy feelings on such genius, or to intrude on such a perfect private moment.

More, though, she couldn’t help wondering if Helena had any idea how beautiful she looked just then, how fragile and precious in a moment of such unguarded contemplation. Imagining herself alone, and thus more exposed than she’d ever be if she’d known that she was being watched, and it tore a little at Myka’s heart to step forward and shatter her illusion of solitude, to step upon the delicate fragments that remained of her freedom.

She did, though. Because it was why she was here, true, but also because she wanted a part of that genius for her own, to step in and lay claim to the parts of Helena that she felt were hers.

It was selfish, she knew that, but she did feel that way. She felt a kinship with Helena, a bond, a rapport that had stemmed from so much more than the fact that she, Myka, had been the one to whom Helena had appealed. They shared so much, in thought and in muse, and Myka wanted to keep a piece of the mind that she knew – so much better than of the others – lived and thrived behind the visage of HG Wells, that simmered beneath the formidable agent or the reformed villain, or whatever other colours her friends and colleagues would choose to paint her.

“Helena?”

Unsurprised, and as graceful as she ever was, Helena whirled to face her. As hard as she tried, Myka couldn’t make out her expression. “My dear Agent Bering. I take it you and Claudia are back from your little excursion?”

“Mhm.” Myka tried, and failed, to keep her own face impassive.

“Am I to presume that a breath of fresh air worked its magic on our poor ailing adolescent?” Though her voice held only a faint hint of polite interest, Myka could read beneath the tone, heard the real anxiety bubbling like illegal sour mash underneath.

“It did her some good,” she said, speaking very carefully. “Yes.”

“Oh?” Helena’s smile was a genuine one, but Myka didn’t miss the sharp edges of suspicion glinting behind the whites of her eyes.

Myka looked at her, gauging her expression, weighing up what she was seeing against what she felt, what she knew about Helena with what Claudia had told her to say. Claudia imagined she knew Helena, knew her mind and the way it worked just because she’d spent some time with her when she was sick... but, even just briefly, Myka too had seen her in that state. She had seen how far gone she was, how out of control, how delirious and wrapped up in her own turmoil. She had seen first-hand just how brutally sick she really had been, in body and mind both, and she knew the toll that kind of sickness took. Claudia hadn’t been in any condition at all to know what Helena had needed back then, and if that was her basis for judging it now, Myka supposed she couldn’t be blamed for taking it with a pinch of salt.

Helena, in point of fact, knew Claudia far better than Claudia knew Helena. She had borne witness to the whole sordid affair, so much more than Myka had. She had been there through all of Claudia’s fever dreams, had travelled with her into the darkest places, the nightmares that even Myka now had to accept might have taken her in the throes of delirium. She had been there, through it all, where Myka herself could not. It would be unfair to deny what she already knew, to try and shield her from things she’d already seen, to look her in the eye and pretend that her worries were unfounded. It wouldn’t make her feel better, Myka knew; all it would do was throw a blanket over the fire she already knew was blazing. It was an insult to her intelligence, and an injustice to her compassion. Helena had earned the right to know that she had been right.

Besides, and for all that she couldn’t deny the timing had been diabolically bad (even by her own less-than-great standards), Myka did believe, with real and genuine honesty, that Claudia truly was _too young_ to understand the state of the world around her and the people who lived in it. At the very least, she was certainly too young to grasp the depths and nuances alight in a mind as remarkable as that of HG Wells. She wasn’t a child, of course she wasn’t... but she was incredibly young, and what minimal life experience she should have had in her short time in the world had been broken by pain upon pain, driving her down and down until she was younger now than she had been then. Even if she were normal, Claudia would be too young to truly understand; as she was, Myka worried that it would be years before she caught up even on the basics of what should have been second nature to someone of her age, much less the complexities of things like this.

In brief, Claudia was hardly the person to be taking empathy advice from, even under normal circumstances. Myka would have to be far less of an agent than she was – and infinitely less rational – to listen to Claudia’s ideals over her own instincts.

And so, though her heart ached with the knowledge of how much it would affect Helena to hear the truth spoken aloud, the image burned upon her mind’s eye of pain and sorrow in her eyes borne of her own words, she steeled herself to be honest. Helena had the right to know. More, she understood, and Myka was not going to take away from her such a priceless tether of empathy just because Claudia wanted so desperately to be tough and strong and brave in front of an ill-chosen hero.

“You were right,” she admitted, not quite able to meet Helena’s face, though she could feel the shift in the air as the confession found its mark.

Helena sighed. “She’s struggling?” 

She made no effort to mask the heartbreak in her voice, or in her eyes or the line of her mouth as it turned downwards, or in any part of her at all. She wore the pain like a badge, a brand that she was simultaneously ashamed and proud of, and the sight of it all over her was almost more painful than a failed attempt at strength would have been. Still, though, Myka nodded, refusing to back down now that she’d chosen her path. Helena could take it, she knew, and it would be far harder to earn her forgiveness for lying than to balm the sorrow that came with the truth.

“She...” She swallowed, and nodded again. “Yeah. She’s struggling.”

Helena, because she was Helena, displayed no triumph. There was no smile, no teasing remark, not even the vaguest hint of _‘I told you so’_ ; in fact, she betrayed no satisfaction at all in hearing the words. For all that she enjoyed being right, Myka knew that every inch of her had been trembling, aching to be wrong about this. And it showed; she stiffened, her entire body going rigid, and Myka could have sworn she actually saw her limbs twisted up at unnatural angles for a moment or two when she turned around.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and her sincerity stole Myka’s breath.

“It’s not your fault,” Myka said, and hoped that Helena would read the same breathtaking honesty in her; she couldn’t remember a time where she had meant something more. “You were there for her when none of us were. If there’s one person in all of this who has no reason to be sorry, it’s you. You did everything you could for her, Helena.”

“And yet, it wasn’t enough,” Helena said. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing!” Myka cried, letting her passion overpower her reason if only for a moment. “God, Helena, it was the furthest thing in the world from ‘nothing’! It meant that she wasn’t alone!” Helena’s expression didn’t shift, and Myka wondered if she realised just how significant that was. “When I was too busy freaking out, and Artie was hiding from reality in his office, and Pete was just too pissed at all of us to go near anyone... you were with her. You were right there by her side. And I know you think it’s not enough, but to her, it’s the whole world. And she’ll know. Even if she doesn’t know anything else, even if she can’t think past what it did to her, she’ll know that you were there. Do you... d’you have any idea what that means to someone like Claudia? That someone was there while she was in pain?”

“Being in the same place as a soul in pain is not enough to end that pain,” Helena informed her. “It changes nothing.”

“It changes everything!” Myka cried, willing Helena to understand, willing the words and the sentiment behind them to break through the darkness she could see misting its way behind her eyes and shaping the cynical curves of her lips. “Helena! She’s never... she has never had anyone. First her parents, then her brother. Her whole goddamned life, Helena, she’s been on her own, abandoned by the people she needed, right when she needed them. She’s spent her whole life fighting just for the right to hope that one day she might not be alone, fighting for the right to believe that her brother might still be alive, fighting for the right to believe in _anything_ and not get put in a straitjacket for it. Her whole life, Helena! All of the darkest things in the world, and she was alone.”

She took a breath, trying not to think too hard about what she was saying; she’d never let herself dwell too much on Claudia’s life before the Warehouse, on what she’d been through and the scars it had left behind. She knew it was there, of course, had even seen fractured snippets of it in those moments when Claudia was too close to sleep to cut herself off from them... but she’d never really thought about it in any real depth, not like this, and she had to keep her distance now, more than ever. She had to keep this about Helena, about the good she’d done, about how much she’d helped a soul so desperately in need of it.

“But not this time,” she said, and her voice cracked. “This time, you were there. You didn’t leave her. She was in pain, _and she wasn’t alone_.”

Helena looked at her, right into her face, and Myka was stunned by the impotent rage that she saw blazing within her.

“You don’t understand.”

The assertion cut; Myka wondered if this was how Claudia felt when she was accused of being ‘too young’. “Helena...”

“No, Myka! She is a _child_! If not now, then she certainly was when those events took place. When the chords were struck within her mind to make it so fractured, when the seeds of such poisonous pain were planted in her, when she was alone and frightened and clinging to a hope that the world told her was madness... when those things happened, she could only have been a child. She has endured a lifetime of traumas, of suffering, of nightmares and horror that no good soul should ever be made to endure, and she is but a child!” The darkness in her eyes shifted, turned to desperation. “She is so, so young, Myka... so very young...”

“I know,” Myka whispered.

Helena’s eyes closed then, and everything behind it was obscured from view. “Why is it always the young?” she asked. “Why is it always the young who must suffer for the faults of their elders? Why must the children hurt, while their protectors stand idle and do nothing? Or, worse, stand active and tell them that their tears are futile... that they are mad or stupid or... or _weak_?”

Myka’s heart stopped.

“Why?” Helena asked again. Her eyes snapped open, blazing forge-hot. “Why must it always be the young and the innocent?”

Myka shook her head. She couldn’t bear to think about this. “Because the world isn’t fair,” she said sadly.

“No,” Helena agreed; the anger was back, shimmering like molten steel in the lines on her face, bending and shaping itself in the fire behind her eyes. “It certainly is not.”

She turned away, as though momentarily ashamed of the rage... or, worse (though Myka didn’t want to think about this either), afraid that she wouldn’t be able to control it if she kept holding her gaze like that, afraid that Myka would be the catalyst to a loss of control from which neither of them would ever recover. It was a sobering thought, a reminder of the place that Helena had come from, the state of mind she must have been in when she was bronzed.

Whatever the reason, though, the effect was the same; she turned her back on Myka as though she wasn’t there, and returned silently to running her fingertips over the sweeping planes of the half-empty shelves. There was a tenderness in her touches, a lightness and care that ran deeper than the violence that still rippled beneath the surface of the rest of her, so frightening and raw, so untethered, and Myka tried to take solace in the positive, in the presence of such gentleness even in the midst of a fury so forceful it could hardly be held inside. This was the HG Wells that she knew, the Helena she admired – always tender, even when she was alight with fire and fury.

“Helena...” she tried again. “We all have bad things that happen to us, traumas that leave their mark, experiences that shape who we are. We all have those scars. You have them, too.”

“Indeed.” Helena was quick to agree, but she did not turn back. Myka watched the lines of her shoulders and her back, through the fabric of her jacket as it shifted with her movements. “And they very nearly destroyed me. They almost tore my mind and my soul asunder, Myka. I, whose mind (I flatter myself) is somewhat strong of mettle, could scarce endure the weight of my grief. I almost let my pain devour me. Were I not bronzed, I don’t...” She trailed off, muscles taut and solid, and Myka fought with everything she had to keep from reaching out and touching her. “If _my_ mind could scarcely endure, Myka, what chance is there for one as fragile as Claudia’s?”

Myka tensed, suddenly overpowered by the need to defend Claudia even as she couldn’t deny the validity in Helena’s point.

“Claudia’s not as fragile as you say she is,” she insisted softly. “Maybe you were right about how badly she’s handling this experience... but you do underestimate her. She’s tough and brave, and resourceful.” It was true, and the conviction echoed through her heart, a swell of fondness and pride. “Her mind isn’t so fragile, Helena.”

Helena whirled around then, and were it not so aflame with anger, the motion might almost have been beautiful. “But it should be!” she cried, and the steel in her voice was frozen over with ice. “That is the beauty of youth, Myka! That’s what childhood exists for! It is our one opportunity, our only one in this world of trials and torment, to _be fragile_ without it being something weak and despicable.”

Myka wanted to say something, but she couldn’t speak at all.

“But, alas,” Helena went on, the soul-deep sadness suffocating the anger and snuffing it out like a candle-flame, “it seems that even that one last sanctuary for the innocent has been taken away as well. If this is your brave new world, Myka, I’m not sure I want a place in it.”

“Maybe it’s not about what you want,” Myka blurted out, before she had a chance to stop and think about it. “Maybe it’s about what the world needs. Maybe it’s made a place for you here, whether you want it or not, because _it_ needs _you_.”

“If that is so,” Helena told her, eyes bright with unshed tears, “then I’m afraid it is even further beyond hope than I imagined.”

Myka sighed, overburdened by all her empathy. “Helena, yours is one of the greatest minds in history. How can you think so little of your contribution to the world around us? How can you see so little in yourself when you’ve given so much to the rest of us?” She stepped closer, as close as she could get, drawn to the heat of Helena’s rage like a metaphorical moth to a flame. “You are important, Helena. The world needs you.”

Helena studied her; the rage wasn’t gone, but it was shrouded in a blanket of contemplation. “Do you truly think so?”

“I do,” Myka said, without so much as a heartbeat’s worth of hesitation, looking her right in the eye and willing her to see the conviction. “I really, truly do.”

For a moment or two, Helena offered no response at all. No words, no expression, not even the slightest shift of her body to tell Myka what she was thinking. Every part of her was a mask, impassive and motionless, and Myka could do nothing but watch and wait for her to accept – or refuse to accept – the truth in what she was saying, the honesty alive in her heart and soul, and step back from the brink of self-destruction.

Finally, just as Myka couldn’t take it any more, Helena sat down. Right there on the floor, in the middle of the corridor, surrounded by all of her timeless inventions, with nothing but the dust and the air to disturb her, she simply sat herself down, crossed her legs, and gazed up at Myka in a wordless invitation for her to follow.

“Very well, then,” she said, and, as hard as Myka searched for the anger in the recesses of her voice, in the black space behind her eyes, in the lines on her face, she couldn’t find it. “So tell me, Agent Bering, about the world that you see.”

Myka frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked, hesitant.

Helena chuckled, but it was a hollow and humourless sound. “You seem so certain, so unquestioningly sure of the future, and of my place in it. I want to see the world that you see.”

For a moment, Myka almost laughed. The question was so surreal spoken out loud, such an endearing statement of how completely Helena didn’t understand; for all her genius, a concept like this was her undoing! It was absurd! But Helena was too stoic, too serious about this to risk such a reaction, so she kept the humour in check and kept her face straight. She simply sucked down a breath, nodded thoughtfully, and tried to look as serious as she could. Which, next to someone like Pete or Claudia, might have been pretty impressive, but next to HG Wells, she was sure she just looked second-rate.

“I see the same world that you see,” she said, after a long moment. “It’s not any different just because I’m the one looking at it.”

“Well, then,” Helena said, thoughtful but not skipping a beat. “Perhaps you ought to explain, then, the source of your faith...”

Myka did laugh, then, but it was ironic, and the look on Helena’s face – a rare moment, in this conversation, where she actually let an expression shine through – told her that she understood the difference, that she realised there was no humour in the sound and hadn’t taken any offense from it. She cocked her head, though, and Myka knew that she was still waiting for an answer. She sighed, and shook her head.

“It’s faith, Helena. It doesn’t come from out there. It’s not something you can see, and it’s not something that can be explained so easily.” She didn’t add, _‘you’re one of the greatest minds we’ve ever produced; how can you, of all people, struggle so much with a concept that practically predates the human race?’_. What she said instead, gently and quietly and without judgement, was, “It’s not always about what you see. Sometimes it’s just about hope.”

Helena chuckled now, too, but in her it was borne neither of amusement nor of irony. There was a bitterness to the sound, a kind of not-quite malice that chilled Myka down to her bones. “Optimism is a lovely thing, Myka,” Helena told her, “but it is quite often a fruitless one, too.”

“Often, sure,” Myka agreed. “But ‘often’ isn’t ‘always’.”

Helena tilted her head, clearly still not convinced, but she seemed unwilling to interrupt.

“Look,” Myka went on, aware of the fact that she was expected to elaborate. “We both... we both know that Claudia’s had a screwed-up life.”

She realised, belatedly, that she didn’t actually know how much of Claudia’s history Helena was really privy to. Did she know all of the intimate details? Did she now actually know more even than Myka herself did? Had Claudia opened up to her, confided in a way that she never had to Myka or Pete or Artie? The surge of emotion that pulsed through her like a Tesla blast at that thought was alien and completely unexpected; it felt almost like jealousy, though she knew it couldn’t be. What reason did she have to be jealous of Helena? If Claudia had found her worthy of that kind of intimacy, she would be glad – happy for Claudia, finding someone who could understand her, and happy for Helena, finding someone who trusted her. It would be a wonderful thing for them both; why should she feel jealous of that?

“Indeed,” Helena affirmed, when Myka was silent for too long, though she gave nothing else away. “We do.”

“But she found us,” Myka said. “She found us, and she got her brother back. The most important thing that the world took from her, it also gave her back. And it gave her a home. It gave her a family, a world where she belongs. It gave her a future. And more than that... so much more than that, it gave her to us, too. I...” She paused, as much for the sake of her emotions as for the need to get air into her lungs. “I look at her, Helena, and I can’t even remember any more what this place was like before. I can’t even remember what it was like here, what the Warehouse was like before she showed up, broke into our lives, all angry and snarling and stubborn and arrogant, this brash little punk who wouldn’t listening to anyone, running around and breaking everything she touched and just... _Claudia_.”

Helena quirked her brow and her lips in near-perfect sync.

“I’m not saying it’s perfect,” Myka confessed. “I know it’s not. I know there are a lot of things that have happened to her that can’t be undone... things that aren’t so easily fixed. Maybe things that aren’t ever going to be fixed, no matter what we do. But she’s got a much better chance of being fixed here than she would anywhere else. And she’s been good for us, too. For Artie, for Pete... and for me. You can’t tell me the world didn’t know that when it brought her to us. You can’t tell me it didn’t know how good we’d be for her, or how good she’d be for us. You can’t tell me it was by accident.”

She stopped there, refusing to belabour the point no matter how long Helena sat in silence, watching and waiting for her to keep going, to say more and more and more, to juxtapose herself by saying too much or pressing down with too much weight, or any one of a hundred thousand things that might negate what she was saying. She wouldn’t do that. She’d said what she felt, what she believed, and that would have to be enough. She wasn’t going to give Helena fuel to disprove her.

“You place a lot in faith,” Helena said simply, after a very long moment.

“I do,” Myka admitted; the words came easily, because she truly believed there was no shame in them. “In a world like this one, you have to. It’s what keeps us human.”

“Humanity teeters on something so intangible,” Helena murmured, and it sounded almost as though she was talking to herself, as though she’d forgotten Myka was there at all.

Myka sighed and leaned in, placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “Humanity hasn’t changed as much as you think it has.”

Helena stared at her. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were very, very serious. “That’s rather what I’m afraid of.”

“Afraid?” Myka echoed, disbelief colouring the words in a way she hadn’t intended. “It’s not something to be afraid of, Helena. It’s something to be proud of.”

“Ah, yes...” Helena remarked, and, unlike Myka’s, her distaste was quite deliberate, unmistakeable so; the acid flowed from her tongue as comfortably as poetry must have once done from her pen, beautiful but deadly. “The ever-enduring spark of human nature...”

“Precisely!” Myka enthused, ignoring the bitterness so tangible in Helena’s voice. “We endure, Helena. Whatever the world inflicts on us, whatever we inflict on each other, whatever happens, we endure.” She took a breath, ragged with raw conviction. “It’s the most admirable thing about us.”

Helena hummed; the sound was surprisingly beautiful for one so ominous, troubled but thoughtful. “It’s also the most dangerous,” she said.

The quiet defeat, the sorrowful suffering, the ghost of impotent rage, so many emotions all in a single statement, and they really shouldn’t have been so surprising as they were, especially to someone like Myka. She, who so completely understood Helena’s mind through the gift of her work, her soul and spirit through the time that they’d spent in each other’s company, her heart by learning about all that she had lost. It shouldn’t have surprised her very much at all to see those revenant shards of pain – always on the cusp of hatred, every part of her poisoned by bitterness towards a world that had so often disappointed her – cutting now and then into the light and beauty that she knew were alive in her.

And yet, it did surprise her. Again and again, every single time, it did.

Maybe... maybe, after all, they were not so different.

The realisation struck her like a bolt of lightning, shaking her right down to her bones, and leaving her breathless and cold with shock. Because it wasn’t herself that she was thinking of. She wasn’t seeing herself and Helena just then. Though she’d always imagined it would be, the two of them such like-minded souls, kindred spirits brought together by the improbability of a world steeped in endless wonder, it wasn’t. It wasn’t _her_.

It was Claudia.

Not Myka, the would-be kindred spirit, the shared soul and symbiotic spirit. No, it was Claudia. Claudia, with her mind all twisted and broken, her soul bruised beyond recognition. Claudia, with her pain and her anger, who was always just on the brink of a madness she might never be able to escape. It was so unlikely, impossible... and yet she couldn’t un-see it.

Helena and Claudia, and she wondered how she had missed it at all.

On the one side, there was Claudia, unable (or maybe just unwilling, as stubborn in that as in everything else) to trust her own mind, hanging on by sheer desperation to the tuneless strings of her heart, like its off-key song was the only one that she could sing. And on the other, Helena, the greatest of minds – genius beyond measure – yet still falling, over and over again, between the cracks and chasms carved in the fragments of a heart already shattered. A broken heart and a broken mind, but neither in the same place. So similar, so distant, and yet shaping such perfect mirrors of each other. It made Myka’s soul ache for them – both so doomed – and for herself, doomed in her own way, if only for loving them both as she did.

If she was right in nothing else, Myka supposed, Helena was right in her claims that it wasn’t fair. But then, for all of its unfairness, maybe there was a kind of poetic justice in it. The two of them, so vastly different – different countries, different centuries, different lives, so unlike each other that there couldn’t possibly be a line drawn that would pull them together, so far removed that they should never have even existed in the same space at all, much less have come to meet... and yet, here they were, together, in the same place at the same time, doing the same things, and both so unbearably alike.

Frightening as it was, she ached in want of the potential they had together. Claudia, under Helena’s tutelage, could be brilliant beyond measure. Dangerous, even. It was worrying, but thrilling too, and Myka found that a part of her longed to see the fruits of that potential. She ached to see Claudia grow under Helena’s hands, to see her disbelief on discovering what she was capable of, to watch the pride light up her face. Because she didn’t know. For all that blinding, dazzling potential in her, for all that she could become under the right stars, she had no idea. Claudia had more in her than Myka had ever seen untapped within a single soul... and she had no idea it was there.

And Helena... oh, Helena. If she let Claudia wrap herself around her heart, Myka knew, she would never be able to let her go. Neither of them would. Claudia, so like a child, impossible not to nurture, and Helena so prone to nurture already, so hungry for a child to fill the void her own had left. Helena, who had so much love to give, but who had lost every opportunity to give it, and Claudia who had never been nurtured before in her life. Between them, Myka knew, they could heal so beautifully. If only Helena would see that.

The thing was, as blind as they were – each in their own way – Myka could see it clearer than daylight. She could see it all. The good that Helena was capable of, the gifts that she could bring to those around her if only she could trust herself to give them. She saw it, so close and yet doomed to stay so far away from where they were, and it broke her heart and excited her soul at the same time, because she knew it could happen. She knew it could, if Helena would just believe her... if she’d just believe in herself, in what she had in her, in the beauty that she radiated at everyone touched by her.

She didn’t need to believe that the world was a good place. She didn’t need to believe in justice or fairness or righteousness or a future worth dying for. She didn’t need to believe in any of those things, anything else that they both knew would never exist. She didn’t need to believe in some miraculous change, judgement thrown down like bolts of lightning from some supernatural force, or a cataclysm to pour down vengeance on the bastards that deserved it. Nobody could live in a world – any world – with those kinds of expectations. All she needed (and Myka knew it with a conviction that stole her breath as surely as she knew it would steal Helena’s just to imagine the faith she held in her) was to believe in something. Something worth enduring for. Something worth fighting for, worth changing for, worth surviving for.

Myka had always just taken for granted the assumption that it would be her. She’d always just taken it as red that Helena would see that thing in her, would see in her soul something worth enduring a world of injustice for, that she would look in her eyes and see a place that might one day become a home, that she might take her hand and feel in its contact a reason to keep looking for better things in this world that was not hers. It had been so inevitable in her eye, so clear and so vivid... the thought of anything else being more important, more worthy, was unfathomable.

But, now, there were other things to take into account. Things that Helena felt on a level that Myka, in spite of all that she knew they did share, could never understand. Things like the anger, the darkness, the pain, the horror and the heartbreak that Helena had suffered, all the things that had brought her into this world in the first place. Myka could understand every thought in her mind, could be a match for her soul in every way, but she would never be able to grasp the very reason she was here.

But then, Claudia could. In another world, another timeline, another universe, Myka knew, she could even have been Helena herself. In a world where her heart was crushed instead of her mind, where a loss was simply a loss, and didn’t bring with it whispers and promises of things that a rational mind knew could not be real. Or else a world where Helena’s loss had brought just those things, perhaps she would have been Claudia instead. If Claudia’s loss had been more natural, or if Helena’s had less so... the mirror between them was so flawless, polished to such perfection, Myka knew, that they could have taken each other’s places in a heartbeat, and to hell with the time and space and everything else that should have separated them. It didn’t separate them now, after all. Why should it have then?

Like any true reflection, Helena saw those parts of herself in Claudia. And it made her angry, Myka knew, because it always hurt to see another soul drowning in the same way that you yourself have drowned... but for Helena, who had already lost a child, to see the same loss reflected in one so young? Myka couldn’t imagine how deeply that frightened her, or how much it frightened Claudia, too, to see a path so dark laid out for what might one day be her future. Helena looked at Claudia and saw a child, Myka knew, but she also looked at her and saw herself. Her own soul and her daughter’s, tangled together and knotted up into a whole new entity, something that was so similar and yet entirely different. She saw what Claudia had once been – the innocence that Myka knew had long ago been chased away from her – and what she would one day become – the darkness that she fought in herself every day. She saw the best in her, the parts that had been long since long, open wounds scoured raw and bloody, and the void that would remain if those wounds were not cauterised. She wanted to protect Claudia, as the child she had once been, and from the demons that had taken that childhood away.

Helena saw herself in Claudia and was afraid. And Claudia saw herself in Helena, and was afraid too. But they were so close, two stars shining so brightly into each other’s eyes that they missed out on their own beauty, and how much more beautiful it was reflected by the other. Myka was not so unlucky. She was distanced, as far away as she could be while still being connected, and she could see it all so clearly.

Myka had faith. She had faith in the nurturing mother who, for all of her best efforts, had not died with her child. She had faith in the scared little girl who was too stubborn to admit that what she needed most was for someone to care for her. And she had faith in herself, to guide them both.

She took Helena’s hand. Let her thumb trace the contours of her knuckles, and, though it wasn’t the first time they’d touched like this, took an extra moment to commit each ridge to memory. “The world can be a terrible place,” she said. “But it’s full of beautiful things, too. Wonderful, incredible things, things that can’t and shouldn’t be explained... and whether you want to believe it or not, your presence here is one of them.”

Helena smiled sadly. “Your optimism will be your undoing.”

“Maybe,” Myka replied. “But if it is, I don’t think I’ll mind.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Y’know, you don’t have to stay here...”

The hint was pretty obvious, even by Claudia’s usual brick-to-the-face standards of not-at-all subtlety, but she supposed it was too much to ask for that it actually be heard... and all the more so given its recipient.

Naturally, then, instead of just taking the hint like she was supposed to, nodding and smiling and going the hell away, Leena just offered an infuriatingly empathetic little chuckle, beaming like she was doing the most awesomely helpful thing in the universe by continuing to impose her existence on Claudia’s personal space, and didn’t move at all.

“I know,” she said, sounding quite sickeningly pleased with herself. “But it’s no trouble at all, really. And I’m comfortable here.”

“Great,” Claudia grumbled, inching a little further away from her in what she hoped was a gesture of rebellion. “That’s just awesome, Leena, I’m so freaking glad that _you’re_ comfortable in _my_ bed.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad, she thought irritably, if Leena had actually asked permission to jump into her bed, or waited for an invitation, or stopped to actually think about whether it was acceptable or not, or... well, done anything at all, really. But no. No, of course not. That would have been way too much to ask for. Instead, like she so often did, she’d just come strolling cheerfully back into Claudia’s room (not even waiting for a frigging ‘come in’!) and made herself right at home – not just in Claudia’s room, though that would’ve been bad enough in itself, but right the hell there on her freakin’ _bed_ , settling herself down on the pillows right next to her like she owned the goddamn place.

...which, okay, so technically speaking, maybe she kind of did (a little bit, sort of), but that was so totally not the point. There was still such a thing as personal space, for the love of whatever, and being forced to stay in bed was bad enough without having to deal with the likes of Leena lying _right there_ on the bed like it was her property. Which... okay, so technically speaking, maybe—

“You are just about the worst patient I’ve ever met,” Leena said, cutting off Claudia’s train of thought before it could derail itself.

Claudia, because she was mature and awesome, managed to refrain from smirking at that. “Yeah, well,” she retorted, taking the moral high ground (or, to use its given name, deflecting her own fail onto other people). “You’ve obviously never had to deal with Pete when he’s got a cold – _‘I’m too hot! I’m too cold! I’m hungry! I’m bored, someone play Go Fish with me! Oh my Goddddd!’_.”

“Oh, stop it,” Leena chided, though she couldn’t quite hide her smile. “Pete’s charming.”

“Pete?” Claudia echoed, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Pete ‘listen while I belch the alphabet backwards’ Lattimer? Pete, who thinks it’s cool to steal food off other people’s plates while they’re eating it? Pete, who almost nuked the Warehouse four times in the last week? That Pete?” She snorted her derision, and Leena retaliated with a sharp elbow to her ribs (just one more reason, she decided, why the whole Leena-in-her-bed thing really needed to stop right the hell now). “Dude, seriously, your definition of ‘charming’ is epically challenged. Like, _epically_.”

“To each their own,” Leena pointed out wisely.

“Oh my God, will you just shut up already?” Claudia groaned, and buried her face in the one pillow Leena hadn’t taken for herself. “And, by the way, what the hell is up with you just, like...” She waved her arms about in a mostly blind gesture at the bed. “Like, seriously, Leena. I get that you kinda own the place and all... and I definitely get that you’re not, like, a normal human being... but here on Planet Earth, we kinda like to wait for an invitation before we climb into bed with someone.” Leena laughed, apparently finding that utterly hilarious, and Claudia hissed her irritation. “I’m totally serious, dude. You can’t just, like, y’know...” She gestured again. “You can’t just jump into my bed because it’s ‘comfortable’, or whatever. Especially when I’m, like, already lying in it!”

“I’m not _in_ your bed,” Leena pointed out, like the clarification made even a tiny bit of difference. “I’m _on_ your bed. You’re _in_ the bed. You’re under the covers, for a start, and you’re supposed to be resting. I’m neither of those things, so—”

“Are you kidding?” Claudia blurted out. “Are you even serious? You’re claiming this is okay on a technicality?”

“It’s really not a big deal, Claudia,” Leena told her.

“It is for me!” Claudia wailed. “It’s _my_ bed!”

Leena chuckled. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, sure,” Claudia griped. “ _I’m_ being ridiculous. You’re the one who comes in here, jumps into bed with me, doesn’t even bother with a ‘hey, Claudia, you mind if I kick back in your bed? oh, yeah, I know you’re using it right now, but that’s totally not a problem, right?’... and _I’m_ the one who’s being ridiculous?”

Leena laughed, eyes bright and shining, and for a few blessed seconds it was exactly what Claudia wanted. This. All this stupid pointless crap, all this stuff that didn’t matter, silly little things that weren’t important, inane Warehouse shenanigans that nobody really cared about. This was what she wanted, what she needed. This... this _ridiculousness_. She needed to lie in bed, to keep company with someone who would look at her and not notice the shadows under her eyes or the lines deepening on her face.

Except, of course, she knew better than to think that Leena didn’t see them. Leena could see everything, even the things that HG couldn’t. She could see right into Claudia’s soul with just a glance, see her insides just by turning her head the right way. There was no way she didn’t know what she was feeling, Claudia realised, and the perfection of the moment fell away like a curtain hiding something unpleasant behind it. Of course she knew. They could both pretend all they wanted, but it wouldn’t change the facts.

Apparently sensing that Claudia was starting to see through her bullshit, Leena sighed. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m glad you’re pissed at me for being on your bed.”

“Of course you are,” Claudia muttered, rolling her eyes in disgust, and trying not to lose her temper at the whole situation. “Schadenfreude is your middle name, right?”

“No,” Leena replied, aggravatingly unoffended, and patted Claudia idly on the back. “But it means that you’re doing better.”

Claudia’s mind gave a violent lurch at that, a warning pounded out in staccato rhythm behind her eyes. It threatened a surge of fear, ice-hot, the danger ever present even as she fought it back, but she willed herself not to acknowledge it. Instead, she squared her jaw, tightened her shoulders, twisted the blankets in her fists until they hurt... did everything she could think of to pretend that the feeling wasn’t there, that it wasn’t inevitable, that she wasn’t going to lose herself to its screams. It was absurd, she knew, because she could no more keep it at bay than she could keep Leena from seeing it in her aura, but she wouldn’t let herself go down without a fight. She couldn’t. Fighting was the only thing she knew how to do. It didn’t matter that she sucked at it, that she couldn’t win even with a whole army on her side. It was all she had.

“Well, duh,” she muttered, exaggerating the moodiness and the attitude in the vain hope of covering over that other thing, the thing with the teeth, the claws tearing at her back just behind the scores left by Leena’s fingernails. “Of course I’m doing better. What were you expecting? They got the artefact that was screwing with me. Game over. I’m fine now.”

Leena shifted thoughtfully, and the whole bed shifted with her. Claudia grunted in protest, rolling over onto her back, pulling herself free from the hand that tried so impossibly to support her, and glaring across the scant space between them, glaring like this was all Leena’s fault, like everything in the whole damn world was her fault. And she wished it was. She really, really wished that it was.

Getting angry at Leena was easy. Claudia did it all the time, whether it was justified or not. It made things easier, made the frustration less even if it couldn’t do anything to dull the pain. It was easy, calming, to blame her for everything, to pretend that all the things that skittered and scratched in the dark, tainted corners of her mind weren’t just the screwed-up products of her own weakness.

But, of course, they were, and no amount of misplaced blame could change that. Claudia knew it, and it made her all the more angry to think about it. She wished she could deflect the blame, to redirect it like she did the anger, to throw that around too, but she couldn’t. Not when Leena was looking at her like that, like Claudia was the most pitiful puppy in the pound, like all she wanted to do was to take her home and give her a warm bed and some good food and a soft blanket, like that would help. She looked so earnest, though, so sincere and sweet, and Claudia hated her for it. She hated it so much.

“You don’t have to be,” Leena said, so brutally soft.

Claudia blinked, her thoughts wholly confounded by the maelstrom in her head. “Huh?”

“Fine,” Leena elaborated, and though she made a big show of being all non-judgey, Claudia could totally tell that she was already so damn sure she knew everything there was to know, like she could see every unhinged feeling Claudia had ever had, like she knew how sick she was, and how it had nothing to do with any artefact-induced fever. “You don’t have to be fine, Claudia. If you’re not, that’s okay too.”

“Oh God...” Claudia cried. “You sound just like Myka, and HG and everyone else. And they’re all way off base, too, so don’t even start. Okay?” She gestured wildly, both arms flailing, and Leena had to duck to keep from being struck. “Look, just because some stupid artefact craziness happened to me... just ’cause I got sick and delirious and whatever else... that doesn’t mean anything... except, y’know, that I got whammied by an artefact. It doesn’t mean I got ‘issues’ or whatever, that I gotta ‘deal with’.”

“I know that,” Leena said, and Claudia squirmed under the piercing laser-beam of her gaze. “And I’m not saying that you do. But if you did...” She sighed, looking kind of like she really wanted to say something specific, but was afraid of getting punched in the face if she tried to. Admittedly, given Claudia’s mood right then, it was probably a fair concern, not that she’d ever admit it out loud. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to be at your best all the time. You don’t have to prove anything, Claudia, and you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to—”

“Look,” Claudia interrupted. “Leena. I get that you’re trying to be all ‘in touch with my aura’, or whatever it is that you do when you’re not trying to be the most annoying person in the universe... but I’m cool, really. I’m good. I’m totally fine, and I don’t need any of your stupid existential mumbo-jumbo right now, okay? I got enough of that crap from Myka already.”

“You heard it,” Leena agreed softly. “But you haven’t accepted it yet.”

“Oh my God!” Claudia cried, resisting the urge to punch something. “Would you just knock it off?”

“You put such a burden on yourself,” Leena went on, and it was like she was deliberately ignoring Claudia’s rising temper because she knew how cataclysmic it would be if the dam broke. “You try so hard to be perfect all the time, because you think anything less than that is unacceptable. You think, if you’re not perfect, you’re not good enough. And so you naturally assume that everyone else feels the same way, that we expect the same from you...” Her voice hardened. “But we don’t, Claudia. We don’t.”

“Shut up,” Claudia snarled, feeling the warning pulse in her brain starting to beat out its war-drum rhythm once again.

“Claudia,” Leena pressed in the same voice, that same coaxing tone, like she knew exactly the effect she was having, exactly how close to the edge she was driving her. “We’re not going to abandon you if you don’t live up to our expectations.”

Claudia wanted to get mad. She wanted to be offended, insulted... even just to hold on to the directionless anger that had come so easily to her thus far. Anything at all, any emotion in the universe that she could actually _use_. Anything that would stave off the empathy that was smothering her, the look on Leena’s face, that aching desperation to make her see what was supposed to be so obvious, all those things that Claudia simultaneously hated and clung to. She wanted to be snarky, to bite back with jibes and jabs like she always did, to blame Leena for making her feel this way. She wanted to feel like that, aggressive and crude and obnoxious, to feel self-assured and strong enough to throw the compassion aside and not even care, to laugh it off and really mean it.

But she couldn’t. And, of course, Leena knew that she couldn’t, because the goddamn woman knew everything. And it hurt to be so obvious, so exposed and visible, and it cut the strings that held together her ability to defend herself, stunted and screwed and limited as it was, until she couldn’t. Couldn’t bite back, couldn’t be snarky or aggressive, couldn’t do anything at all.

Her head throbbed, the warning pulse already escalating into something nearly blinding, like the fever only worse, and she tried to close her eyes, but that just made her even more conscious than she already was of the warmth of the body next to her, the compassion radiating out from it, the know-it-all not-judgement. The awareness just made her ache more, bringing with it a dangerous, familiar pulse, a sting just behind her eyes, even as she caught herself leaning into it, second nature to seek out that comfort even as it went against everything she was.

“Leena, just stop. Please, just...”

But her voice was cracked, split apart in all the places she needed it to make sense, and she couldn’t go any further.

Leena understood, though. She always understood everything. Claudia hated that in her, so very much. “Claudia...”

“Don’t,” she whined, gritting out the word by sheer force of will and twisting the plea into a demand. “Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t say my name like that, like it’s something sick. Don’t talk to me like _I’m_ something sick. I can’t... we can’t... and we were...” She shut her eyes, feeling the tears pricking close to the surface and forcing them back. “We were having a good moment. We were doing good, Leena. We were doing really good, y’know, with the whole bed thing, and it was cool and it was all fine and okay, and _normal_. It was so normal. And you... you just freakin’ had to go and screw it up by being so...”

“Compassionate?” Leena suggested with a sad smile. “Empathetic?”

“ _You_ ,” Claudia corrected, bitterness touched by the fear she was still fighting. “Like you, and like Myka, and like HG. Like all of you, and _why_? Why do you all gotta act like that? Why do you all gotta make like my issues are yours to fix?”

“We don’t want to fix them, Claudia,” Leena replied, almost too softly to be heard. “We want to share them.”

The words sent a shudder rippling through Claudia, and through the bed as well, and she turned away, twitching out of reach before Leena had a chance to ground her with her fingertips.

“Leena,” she whispered, hoarse and rasping and so desperate to not have to deal with this, or with anything at all. “Can you just go away? Please? Can you please just leave me alone?”

“I promised Myka I’d stay with you,” Leena said, and the apology in her tone was sincere.

“I don’t care,” Claudia whined (like, really and truly _whined_ , the kind of whine that came from a kid with a sore throat or a kitten that had gotten its head stuck, the kind of whine that made it sound like even just the words were a source of pain). “I don’t care what you told Myka, and I don’t care what Myka told you. I don’t care what either of you say or do or think or... or anything. I don’t care about anything, Leena. I just want you to leave me alone. I just want to be... I just...”

She was right on the edge all over again, and it was ridiculous. It was so, so ridiculous. Hadn’t she just been here only a short while ago, swallowing back tears and hurt and trying so freakin’ hard not to lose it? Hadn’t she just been right exactly here, with Myka, holding on to the crumbling ledge of what had once been her sanity, fighting with everything she had in her just to keep from breaking down? She had just been exactly here, doing exactly this... and yet here she was again, again and again and again, and why? Why wouldn’t it stop? Why wouldn’t it—

“ _Stop_.”

Leena’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist, grip as tight as a vice, and for once in her life, Claudia actually tried to listen to her.

“Claudia, stop. Okay? Just stop. Stop, and breathe.”

Desperate to cling to the anger that had so completely abandoned her, Claudia lashed out, flailing hopelessly with as much violence as she could muster at nothing in particular. She didn’t really want to hit Leena (at least, she didn’t think she did), but she couldn’t think clearly enough to come up with a better way of expressing herself. She needed to be violent right now, wild and feral, defiant and brutal, because that was the only way she could remember how to be strong.

Leena, for her part, deflected the unfocused swings with her usual grace, catching and holding Claudia’s balled fists with the kind of tenderness that, had Claudia been a couple of years older – no longer an angst-driven post-teen, but a grown woman with all the strength and form of someone like Myka or HG – wouldn’t have been nearly enough to hold her at bay. It wouldn’t have even slowed her down, she knew, if she were like them. But she wasn’t. She was her, young and weak and pathetic, not like them at all. Her emotions controlled her so much more than she controlled them; she had passion, yes, but it wasn’t enough, and Leena knew that.

Gentle, always so unbearably gentle, realising but actively ignoring the bloody tempest she was stepping into, Leena unclenched the fists in her hands, turned them face-down, and lowered them back down, slowly but steadily, until they rested once more on the sheets between their bodies, at rest.

“That’s your problem,” she murmured. “That’s exactly it. You fight everything so hard, and with so much unnecessary violence.”

“Well, duh!” Claudia snapped, but her voice was hollow, all pain and no rage. “Of course I fight hard! Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” Leena answered simply. “We hurt for a reason, Claudia. We hurt so that we can heal.” It was lame as hell, and Claudia voiced her distaste as loudly and derisively as she could. Still, though (because she was nothing if not doggedly determined when she set her mind on something ‘profound’), Leena kept right on going, like she hadn’t reacted at all. “Violence doesn’t help you to heal, Claudia. Fighting doesn’t mend pain, it just breeds more.”

Maybe it did, Claudia thought grudgingly. But so what? At least, if she was breeding her own pain, it would be a pain she could control. At least she would be the one calling the shots on how bad she hurt, and for how long. She’d sooner go down swinging on a noose she’d made for her own neck, than go out whimpering and crying in a corner somewhere, on her knees at someone else’s mercy, and still end up in that same damn pine box. At least this way, she got to choose where the blood came from.

“I’m not scared,” she said, fierce and fiery, even as she still couldn’t find the dregs of her anger.

“I didn’t say you were scared.”

“Well, then, what? Huh? What the hell do you want from me, Leena?”

She was yelling now, still reaching for that fury, grasping and groping through the void of her mind, shining imaginary flashlights through the dusk of reality that cut her off and blinded her at every turn. But it was no good; of course it wasn’t. She could feel the tremors in her voice, could feel the flares of almost-light twitching and fading every time she tried to look at them, and she knew that Leena could see it all in her too. She was losing, drowning, falling, and there wasn’t enough of a foothold to keep herself up.

“Claudia...”

“No! I’m serious! You want me to just, what, bend over? Is that it? You want me to just lie there and take it, like I’m Fate’s bitch or something? You want me to roll over and play dead, let ’em put the leash on, nice and tight, like a good puppy? Is that what you want me to do?”

“No,” Leena said; she was so calm it hurt. “I just want you to breathe.”

Claudia bit down on her tongue, swallowed the pain until she choked on it, until it came back up as hopeless desperation. “Why can’t you guys just leave me alone?”

Leena sighed, a ripple of liquid solace in a room burning down with Claudia’s pain. “Because you don’t really want us to.”

The worst part was, it was true. For all that she insisted she wasn’t, Claudia really was scared. Worse than scared, she was terrified. It was just like HG had said, the shadows in her mind playing tricks on the parts of her that tried so hard to be sane, the darkness within swelling up and surging over everything else, pulling her under until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. If she was left alone – really and truly, like she pretended she wanted to be – she knew that she’d be lost. And she wouldn’t be able to blame the fever this time, or an artefact, or anything else. If they left her alone and she lost herself now, she’d have nobody to blame but herself... and that would mean she’d been lost all along.

She closed her eyes, struggled to suppress the emotion, but there was no holding back the sharp little whimpers once they started, and no biting back the trauma once it was there at the surface, and suddenly she couldn’t see through the blur, the mist of salt clinging to her eyelashes, and she wasn’t crying (because she wouldn’t let herself cry) but they looked and felt and tasted so much like tears...

“Claudia.”

“Go away,” she whispered, even as they both knew she meant exactly the opposite. “Please, Leena. Please, just go away.”

Of course, that was the moment Artie chose to show up.

He didn’t even bother to knock, of course, but that didn’t surprise her; when it came to other people’s personal space, the dude was about as oblivious as Leena, and almost as dogged. Normally, she would have yelled at him for that, glowered and grumbled until it was all he could do to manage a sheepish apology and run right back out the way he’d come. But not this time.

This time, for all of her insistence that she wanted to be alone, she welcomed him with open arms.

It wasn’t the company she wanted, she told herself; it was the distraction. Artie’s presence was something fresh and new and completely different from Myka and Leena and everyone else who seemed to think it was acceptable to breathe down her neck. And, yeah, it hadn’t escaped her notice, the way he’d kept his distance while all this went down, hiding from her even more blatantly than Myka (and without the excuse she’d had, either!), and it felt like forever since she’d seen him at all, much less been in the same room as him. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that she’d missed him, of course... but she wouldn’t send him away either.

Besides, looking at him, watching the way he watched her, studying him as he looked around with comic furtiveness, taking in every drop of his obvious discomfort... well, it took her away from her own. It kept her from remembering how close she was to the edge. It gave her focus and balance, and, as an added bonus, it took her away from Leena. More than that, though, it took her away from herself.

“Artie!” she called, waving in an exaggeratedly flaily manner, the not-tears wiped away in a flurry of frantic motion, and almost decapitating Leena once again in the process. “It’s about freakin’ time you showed your sorry face round here.” She mustered a grin, though she knew well enough that it wouldn’t convince anyone. “What’s up, big guy?”

For about half a second, he looked delighted, genuinely and unguardedly pleased by her enthusiasm. But, of course, the moment couldn’t last, and Claudia recognised the exact moment when he realised that she wasn’t acting like herself by the way that almost-happiness on his face dissolved like sugar in the rain, clouding his features into something more typically Artie. His eyes slowly narrowed, ill-concealed relief shunted to the side by sudden suspicion, and she kind of wished she could have held off on the enthusiasm for just long enough to at least try to make him believe that there was nothing wrong.

But, of course, just like they all did, he knew her far too well.

“You’re pleased to see me...” he observed, somewhat unnecessarily. “You’re never pleased to see me.” His frown deepened, and he took a cautious step backwards, as though afraid of what this alien notion might mean. “Why? What have you done?”

Claudia clasped a hand to her chest in what she hoped would come off as a gesture of mock-offense and not one of desperation (which was admittedly rather closer to what it really was).

“What?” she demanded. “I can’t be pleased to see my epic super mentor dude without having some kind of ulterior motive up my sleeve? I’m hurt, Artie! _Hurt_!”

Artie stared at her, one massive eyebrow raised, and Leena gave a delicate cough, making the point in her usual wordless way that, if Claudia didn’t suck it up and tell him at least some vague version of the truth, then she would do it for her. Claudia turned to shoot her a vicious glare, really not appreciating the wannabe intervention, then went back to pouting at Artie.

“Okay, fine,” she sighed, spreading her arms as if to say ‘you got me’. “Leena’s been driving me nuts in here. You’re the better option.”

Leena snorted, but didn’t contradict her; Claudia considered that a win.

“Ah-ha,” Artie hummed, as though that explained everything. He continued to eye her for a bit, then turned to look at Leena with a depth of sympathy that was frankly rather uncalled-for. “What’s she been doing?”

“Me?!” Claudia huffed. “What did I just say, dude? She’s the one who’s been—”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Leena interrupted, answering Artie in her typically unspecific way (for which Claudia was, for once, quite glad), and then hopped off the bed, lightning-fast and irritatingly graceful. “But since you’re here now, I’ll leave you to deal with her. I have to get dinner started anyway.”

“You’re so generous,” Artie remarked, still eying Claudia.

“That’s me,” Leena affirmed, speaking with effortfully weighted cheer as she sauntered out of the room, shooting a sorrow-tainted glance back at Claudia. “I’m a giver.”

“Oh, she’s a giver all right,” Claudia muttered bitterly , glaring at the door as it shut behind her. “A giver of stupidity, and pain, and more stupidity, and more pain, and—”

“Claudia...” Artie warned, somehow managing to sound like a chiding father and an amused friend at the same. “Be nice. She’s just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, she _isn’t_ helping, Artie, okay? She isn’t helping at all! She and Myka and everyone else... they just need to back the hell off and leave me alone because they’re really, really not helping. Okay? They’re not. They’re just making everything worse by being all up in my face over this crap, and I...” She trailed off, catching his gaze and pleading with hers. “...I swear to God, Artie, if you’re here to start lecturing me about all this too, you can just leave right the hell now, because I can’t... I can’t...”

“Whoa,” he cried, cutting her off before she could break down and holding up his arms, though whether that was to calm her or to protect himself, she couldn’t tell. “Slow down, kiddo. I’m not here to do anything. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve only just got here.”

“Right,” Claudia sighed, reminding herself of the fact and willing her pulse to slow down just enough for her to hold a conversation for more than two seconds. “Right. Yeah. Uh.” She closed her eyes. “Look, I really appreciate you comin’ to see me and everything, but, y’know, I’m really tired, so...”

Artie took a tentative step or two into the room, still looking at her like he’d never seen her before. It didn’t escape her notice, the way he tried to keep a safe distance, and the fear in his eyes that told her he was as afraid of her as she was of herself just then. She really had no idea whether she found that comforting or upsetting. All she knew was that she wasn’t the only one who was frightened of herself just then, and that that probably meant there was a reason to be.

“I won’t be here long,” he assured her, though he sounded oddly nervous. “I just... well, I’ve not come to see you yet, so I thought...”

“That’d be a first,” she snorted, because she couldn’t help herself. He blinked a bit, confused. “You _thinking_ , I mean.”

“So good to see your illness hasn’t affected your capacity for disrespect,” he shot back, then took another uneasy step forwards.

“Oh my God, Artie!” she cried, watching him hover about halfway between the door and the bed, looking like a tiny rabbit caught in the headlights of a particularly mean-looking eighteen-wheeler. “I’m not gonna bite, okay? Just get your ass in here.”

He glared, but did as she said, inching forwards until he was only a foot or so away from the bed. Apparently, it was too much to ask for him to come any closer than that, so Claudia accepted the gesture as good enough with a head-tilt and a shrug; honestly, the distance was something of a relief after Leena and her stubborn refusal to grasp basic concepts like _“get the hell out of my bed”_. He was staring at her, though, like there was something on her face, and it was beginning to get just a little bit unnerving.

“For the love of whatever, Artie...” she groaned, “what is it now?”

“Nothing,” he insisted, but he sounded stupidly nervous; if Claudia wasn’t in the sort of mindset where everything in the world was annoying as hell, she probably would have found it somewhat amusing, or at least a little flattering, that he cared enough to get so tongue-tied. “I just wanted to see how you were feeling. I mean, I didn’t want to assume...” He made a noise in his throat.

Claudia rolled her eyes, or tried to. “You could just ask, old man.”

He scowled, but didn’t argue. “Well, if you must bring your teenage logic into it...” he griped. “How are you feeling?”

Claudia leaned her head back until it struck the headboard, hard. “I’m fine, Artie. I...” She grimaced, let her head strike the board once again, and relished the way the dull pain stopped her guts from twisting so badly when she tried to shape those words. It always hurt more to lie to Artie than to anyone else. “I’m fine. I’m totally, totally fine.”

He looked relieved, but she rather suspected it was less for her benefit, and more for his own. “Good. I mean, err...” He flailed for a moment or two. “Well, yes. Good.” Claudia buried her face in her hands, cringing on his behalf. “Myka said you were better, but I wanted, I mean, I felt I should... that is...” He spluttered, endearingly hopeless, in a way that made her feel, just briefly, a little less pathetic about herself. “I wanted to see for myself.”

“How sweet,” Claudia deadpanned. “You don’t need to. It’s all over. I’m fine. There’s nothing to see any more.”

Artie narrowed his eyes, sensing the bullshit, and Claudia reflexively turned her own down, avoiding the spotlight glare of his mistrust. “Claudia...”

“What?” she snapped, and swiftly occupied herself by smoothing down the bedcovers where Leena’s presence had crumpled them. “Don’t take that tone, old man. It’s even more annoying on you than Leena or Myka. Just go back to being all bumbling and awkward and lame. It suits you way better.”

“Claudia...” Artie said again, and it was about eighty-six thousand times more effective than it was when Leena said it.

“Dude,” she said. It was disgusting; he’d been here less than two minutes, and already she was getting tearful again. She tried to swallow over the lump in her throat, bit down hard, kicked out against the pain, did everything she could to hold the inevitable at bay. “Artie, I...”

When she was finally brave enough to raise her face and look at him, bracing herself to meet the worry that she knew she’d find on his face, so like Myka’s and Leena’s and yet so different, instead she found herself met with something helpless, a rising panic that was more like Myka had been when she was sick than how she was afterwards, all freaked out and freaking and Claudia felt – now, just like then – like she had to be the worst person in the world to make them feel that way.

She was healthy now, but that didn’t change anything. It didn’t matter what state she was in: Artie couldn’t deal with her.

Of course he couldn’t deal with her. It shouldn’t have even surprised her. Because, for all that he cared about her, he’d never been able to deal with her. Not ever. Artie was no more cut out to be a father than she was to be a daughter, and there was nothing new in this at all, nothing in the way he was looking at her now that was any different to the countless times he’d looked at her before, like she was some kind of alien come down to Earth on a mission to confound and frustrate him. Of course he couldn’t deal with her; if even Myka couldn’t manage it, what chance did he have?

None. But then, for all that she knew it, he was different. He was different from Myka, different from Leena. He couldn’t deal with her... but then, she couldn’t deal with him either.

With Myka, she could lie. She could talk her into believing that she was okay, or at least into thinking she was okay _for now_. She could convince Myka that she wasn’t about to shatter, even as the cracks in her were so visible a blind man could see them; Myka was bad at this, too, clumsy and awkward when it came to offering things like comfort and solace, never knowing how, and not really comfortable enough in her own skin to help someone else fit into theirs. And so it was easy for Claudia to talk crap, to convince her that things were better than they really were, because, for Myka, it was easier to pretend that she was helping than to accept that maybe she wasn’t.

And with Leena, she could fight. Leena was so peaceful, so kind and sweet, so excruciatingly gentle, and it was easy for Claudia to lash out with all the violence in her, all the force and the fury that was never quite as powerful as she wished it was. It was too much for someone like Leena to handle that level of fierceness. Leena, who thrived on amicability, on quiet and comfort and softness, and Claudia knew that most of the time it took everything she had just to shield her eyes against the heat and light, the apocalyptic blaze of Claudia’s aura when she worked herself up into that kind of frenzy. It disarmed her, leaving her exposed and vulnerable and making it impossible for her to make Claudia hear the reality in what she was saying. Leena was a pacifist, and Claudia knew how easy it was to disarm someone who refused to pick up a weapon.

But neither of those tactics would ever work against Artie. She couldn’t lie to him, and she couldn’t fight him. When she lied, he’d glare at her and ask her if she thought he was born yesterday (which, frankly, was just plain begging for a snarky retort), and if she fought, he’d yell at her for being disrespectful and then probably try to ground her. Either way, he’d cut through all the crap, and leave her defenceless.

The worst part was, he knew it. He knew, no matter how bad he was at doing the father thing, that she was worse at the daughter thing. He knew that there was still a part of her that couldn’t help seeing in him the professor she’d known as a child, the grown man that even her genius brother had looked up to, and the soft-hearted soul who’d helped her even after she’d broken into his home and kidnapped him. He had done so much for her, and he knew her too well to believe that all of her bravado meant that she didn’t spend every damn minute of every damn day thinking about how much she owed him.

And, of course, he didn’t even need to say anything. His eyes said it all – _“do you really think you can hide anything from me, kiddo?”_ – so that his mouth didn’t have to. Which was great for him, but not so good for her, because if he had tried to say something, she knew as well as he did that he would screw it up, and make such a colossal mess of the words that she would get the upper hand again, that if he just so much as opened his mouth right now, she’d come back and snark him into submission, lying and fighting and both at once, until he was as useless as anyone else.

But no. He left all the talking to her, because he knew exactly how much he sucked at it, and he knew that she sucked at it too... but she – unlike him – simply couldn’t stand to be in a room that was silent. Of course he knew that. He knew that she’d have to open her mouth, that she would say anything at all (even if it didn’t make any sense, even if it threw her under the wheels, _anything_ ), just to fill the void where there had once been sound. She couldn’t tolerate silence. Silence frightened her, deeply and fundamentally, striking deep inside her, and the urgent need to fill it was always her undoing.

“Look, Artie,” she forced out. “It’s cool that you came by and all, but you don’t, like... I mean, you don’t owe me anything, or... or anything. You really don’t gotta be here, so you can...”

Artie sighed loudly, cutting her off with sheer the volume of it; apparently, he could tell that if he let her keep going, she’d just run herself round and round in the same circles until they were both driven into the ground. It wasn’t going to work. She’d dealt with too many people over the last couple of hours, too many people forging too many different opinions about how badly she was coping, telling her too many different things, and she had struggled in too many different ways against them all. All she had left was a hundred different ways of saying _“I can’t take this”_ and a thousand different ways of begging them all to go away.

“Kiddo,” he said. She cringed at the name, not because she hated it, but because it rendered her powerless every time he used it. “Who do you think you’re trying to fool?”

“I’m not...” she started, futile and pathetic. “I don’t... I...”

He inched forwards, still hesitant, even now. “Claudia.”

She refused to look at him, refused to look at anything at all. She dropped her head into her hands and shut her eyes tight, reeling against the darkness until the whole world was blocked out. She couldn’t even imagine how pitiful she must look just then, but she didn’t care. She just wanted everything to stop.

“I can’t, Artie. Okay? I just _can’t_. Everyone thinks they understand, and it’s like... Pete’s been through it, and he doesn’t know anything... and Myka hasn’t been through it at all, but she acts like she knows everything... and then Leena doesn’t even care whether she knows stuff or not, she just wants to preach at me like I’m in church or something, and I don’t wanna hear it. I don’t wanna hear Pete telling me he can’t help, and I don’t wanna hear Leena telling me that she can, and I don’t wanna hear Myka wishing that she could, Artie, and I...” She took a breath, and, because she couldn’t lie to him, admitted it. “I... I really can’t deal with you too.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, and the silence was almost enough to make her want to pull her head up and look at him, but she was too afraid of the hurt (or, so much worse, disappointment) that she knew would be all over his face. She hated making them sad, any of them, but Artie most of all.

“All right,” he said after a moment, voice light, and she flinched in surprise; this was the first time she’d tried to make someone go away, to just go away and leave her the hell alone, and hadn’t been met with a mile-long string of reasons why that wasn’t an option. “Contrary to what you may think, Claudia, I do understand.”

“Yeah?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Mhm.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and it was weirdly comforting. “You don’t want the old geezer cramping your hip style while you’re recuperating.”

“Oh my God!” Claudia whined. “You so did not just try and pull that off.”

She didn’t need to look at him to know he was glaring. “Don’t push it,” he snapped. “Who would you prefer?”

“I dunno,” she groaned. “I don’t want anyone. I don’t want anything. I just...” She sighed. “Can’t you just leave me alone? Please?”

Artie snorted a humourless laugh. “I could, but Leena would hunt me down.”

“Only ’cause then Myka would hunt _her_ down,” Claudia griped; she was shooting for moody, but it just sounded miserable. “What the hell is wrong with them, Artie? Why don’t they get it?”

Finally, she raised her head, and immediately wished she hadn’t. The look on his face was almost physically painful, his own sympathy mingled with the kind of sorrow that she always hated to see on him because it meant that he was just as human as the rest of them... and he wasn’t allowed to be like that. He was Artie, he wasn't supposed to have feelings. He was supposed to just be there to throw stuff around and talk facts and, occasionally, take a good mocking. He wasn’t supposed to be weak like her.

“You really have no idea how much we care about you,” he said, very quietly, and Claudia winced. “You have no idea.”

“Don’t!” she cried, voice cracking with desperation. “Please, Artie, don’t tell me how much. That...” And, as she said it, she realised it too. “That’s the thing I can’t deal with.”

Every inch of him seemed to deflate at that, and suddenly he looked even smaller than she felt. “I see,” he murmured.

“No, you don’t,” she told him, and she had to cover her face again, because it hurt too much to hurt him. “You don’t see. You don’t see, and Myka doesn’t see, and Leena doesn’t see. I don’t want you guys sitting here trying to make me feel good. I _can’t_ feel good. I can’t do it right now, Artie, I just _can’t_. And not one of you people understand that!”

“We don’t expect you to,” he managed, fumbling impossibly for the right words, and Claudia almost felt sorry for him.

“Yeah, you do,” she said. “You do. All of you do. You think it’ll be enough to tell me how much you care, how much you understand, how much you get it, how much you wanna help. You think somehow you can help. Myka thinks she can, like, ‘be there’ now, because I’m not sick any more. She thinks she can be all empathic and compassionate and whatever, even though we both know she can’t. And Leena thinks she can tell me all the crap I already know, and somehow it’ll make me feel better just because it’s coming from her. And you... you think it’s enough that you’ve come to see me, like it’s enough that you can tell me you were worried and you care, and suddenly it’s all cool and awesome... but it’s not.” It was getting hard to breathe, really hard, but she refused to let him see that. “You guys don’t understand. I’m not gonna feel better just ’cause you tell me to. And it just makes me feel worse and worse when you guys look at me like it’s supposed to be okay now, like it’s my fault all this stuff isn’t working, and Myka’s all worried and Leena’s all Leena, and you’re just... you’re just freakin’ _useless_ , Artie – I mean jeez! – and it doesn’t... it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that Myka’s right and Leena’s right and everyone’s right. It doesn’t matter that I’m gonna be okay, because right now I’m _not_. I’m not okay. And none of you can say anything that’s gonna change that.”

It felt weird, saying it out loud, admitting it in a place where it could be heard by someone other than herself, and she felt her whole body trembling with the sheer violence of it. She could tell he wanted to interrupt, to say anything if only it would calm her, but that wouldn’t make any more difference than anything else. It wouldn’t change anything, and she had to make him see that.

“Look,” she went on, and it was only when the words left her mouth that she realised how exhausted she was. “I get that you’re all scared of leaving me alone. Like, I know you all think I’m gonna hurt myself or something. But I’m not, I swear. I just... I just need to be someplace where it’s okay to not feel good, where it’s okay to not be okay. Artie, I wanna be someplace where it’s okay to... to...” She shut her eyes, thinking of HG, of all the words that she’d tried so hard to resist, the way that she really did understand. “...where it’s okay to be afraid of myself.”

Artie seemed to start at that; Claudia felt the room lurch, and closed her eyes again. “Oh, kiddo,” he said, and she knew what was coming even before he said it, and it was all the reasons why he couldn't be here just then, why Myka couldn’t, why Leena couldn’t, why none of them could be here, why she couldn’t deal with them. Because, as surely as she knew what he was about to say, she knew that it was wrong. “You don’t have to be afraid of yourself. There is nothing wrong with you. You’ve just been through a lot...”

“I know that!” Claudia shouted. “I know what I’ve been through! I was there! I’m the one who went through it, for the love of whatever! God, Artie!” She took a breath, then another, willed herself to stay calm enough to keep the words flowing. “But knowing it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the way I’m feeling just because I know what caused it. It doesn’t make me feel it any less, and it doesn’t make it any less frustrating when you people don’t freakin’ get it.” She couldn’t keep breathing, so she clenched her jaw and growled instead. “Look, Artie, if you’re all so freaked out that you gotta send someone to babysit me, if you’re all so freakin’ sure you know what’s best for me that you all gotta stage kind of lame intervention or whatever, I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Good, she thought, because she didn’t want to hear it. 

“...but look,” she went on. “I know what you think, and I know what you feel. But can you just... just once, Artie, can you just forget who she is and...”

“No,” he said.

“Please,” she whispered, and she knew that the word was enough. “Please, Artie. If I gotta deal with someone... if I really gotta... can you please, just this once... please let it be HG?”

Artie hissed, low and angry, like he’d been stabbed in the back by the person he had trusted most. “Et tu, Claudia?”

“Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “Yeah, Artie, et moi.” She had no idea if that was even the right language, much less the right phrase, but without Myka around to ask, she just ran with it. “I know you don’t like her. I know you think she’s got some kind of ulterior motive or whatever. But she... she _gets_ it. And you guys don’t.”

“That’s not—”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted. “I don’t care what it is or isn’t or anything. I just know that she’s the only one who gets it. And I know it’s not... I know it’s not the same, the way she gets it... I know she says stuff wrong sometimes, just like you guys do, but... but she gets it. Like, really. Fundamentally. And I know it’s not healthy, but right now, Artie, neither am I. And I need her to... Artie, I just... she _gets it_ , okay? She gets it. And that’s... that’s it. That’s all I got in me. And if you can’t... if that’s not enough, then I got nothin’.” She can’t meet his eye. “It’s all I got, Artie. It’s all I got.”

When she finally met his eyes, they were clouded, and she knew he was looking at her in the same way that she looked at him sometimes when he was being unreasonable but she knew she’d end up doing what he wanted anyway (even if it was lame and stupid), that way that said he knew, even if he’d hate her for it, he wouldn’t deny her what she needed.

“Fine...” he said angrily. “If she’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “If I gotta have someone... if you guys are really gonna make me... then yeah. It’s her. It’s HG.”

He wouldn’t deny her. She knew that. She didn’t need to make the point as fervently as she had; she’d had him at ‘please’, and they both knew it. But she owed it to him, owed it to HG, owed it to them both to make him realise how important it was. He had to see how important _she_ was... how much she mattered.

It didn’t make him any happier about it, though. But, honestly, if it got the point across, Claudia didn’t care. She wasn’t lying; it really was all she had in her, and she was too exhausted to care if he hated her for it.

Which, from the look of him, he probably did. At least, for now, because he made a really big show of sweeping towards the still-open door, face darker than a thundercloud and eyes alight with disgust.

“As soon as you’re fully recovered,” he snapped, “you’re grounded.”


	18. Chapter 18

As much to her own surprise as anyone else’s, Myka actually found herself kind of resistant to the idea of Helena going back to be with Claudia.

Even by her own admission, it didn’t make any sense. She should have been happy, over the moon that someone else was seeing in Helena all the things that she knew were in her – the caring woman, the nurturer, the empathic soul. She should have been delighted that Claudia would stand up, even to Artie, and say that nobody but HG could be what she needed in that moment. It should have been everything she wanted in all the world.

But it wasn’t. And all she felt was unease.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she heard herself ask, trying not to sound too judgemental, locking eyes with Artie so that she wouldn’t have to see the betrayal alight in Helena’s.

“No,” he said. “I’m sure it’s a terrible idea.” He shot a scowl at Helena, evidently somewhat less divided than Myka, but managed to keep from saying anything excessively cruel. “But, for some unfathomable reason, it’s what she wants.”

Myka sighed. Helena, showing admirable restraint, chose not to say anything at all, simply biding her time and allowing them to decide for her, placing her fate in their hands yet again, as she had time and time again, almost from the moment she’d been de-bronzed.

It couldn’t have been easy, Myka thought silently, letting her fate be held in other people’s hands, so much and so often, and all the more so with a mind as brilliant as she knew Helena’s was. And yet, she bore the burden so well. She was patient, contemplative but not arrogant, simply standing still and quiet, a ghost more than a solid presence, as Myka and Artie talked about her and Claudia as though neither of them had any capacity for thought at all. She must have realised that they weren’t particularly happy about it – that even Myka, her unquestioning ally, had her qualms – but, at the same time, she must also have known that neither one of them could think of a good reason to deny it; for all that Myka was sure Helena wasn’t ready to be around Claudia just yet – at least not until she calmed down a little – there was no denying that she was indeed the one who understood the young woman best. At least, right now.

Still, though, she worried. For Claudia, who would seek Helena above all the people who had taken her in so readily, who she knew and who knew her. And for Helena, so affected by the trials and traumas of a soul so young, and so unready to go once more into that breach, to see her daughter’s cold eyes alight behind Claudia’s.

She waited until Artie was gone before saying anything.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked, at last making no pretences about the issue, and letting Helena see the worry on her face; if nothing else, she deserved the honesty.

Helena shrugged, far too casual to be convincing, even to someone who knew her less than Myka did. “Is there a particular reason why I shouldn’t be?” she asked, and her tone was so even that Myka couldn’t possibly gauge the emotion hiding behind the words.

“No,” she answered simply. “Of course not. But you seemed so upset before. I’m not sure that atmosphere is what’s best for her right now.”

_Or you_ , she didn’t add.

“I think it’s exactly what’s best for her,” Helena said evenly. “She doesn’t need coddling, Myka. She’s recovered, and she is well. She doesn’t need you, or your housekeeper, or even Artie, telling her that. She needs someone who understands that sometimes being well is not the same as being healthy. She needs someone who will accept what she’s feeling, whether or not it is what she ‘should’ be feeling, and not try to change it.”

Myka conceded with a nod, bowing out of the discussion before it could become an argument, and trying not to think about the weakness in the submission. It was a mark of trust, she decided, and that bandaged the wound of losing; she was showing Helena, in a way that words simply couldn’t do, just how deep her faith in her ran. Because, honestly, it wasn’t Helena whose motives she doubted. She believed in her, on a level that ran deeper than any amount of logic or reason or anything she could explain, in a way that cut so much more closely than common sense.

But Claudia was a different question entirely, for more reasons than she could count, and for all that Myka had absolute faith in Helena to be everything she could be for the young woman she’d grown so protective of, to be the best version of herself if that was what Claudia wanted, Myka wasn’t entirely sure that she trusted Claudia to know what was best for herself. Because Claudia was not like Helena; she had the same shadows in her, the same ghosts of pain and trauma, the same darkness that left her breathless if she thought too hard about it... but she was young. Helena was not; she had lived in this world that she hated so much, and she knew it, intimately and on every conceivable level. Claudia did not, and Myka wasn’t sure she had experience enough yet to know what corners were safe to crawl into.

“You know...” she murmured, thinking aloud as she drove Helena back to the B&B, “...she wanted me to tell you that she was all right.”

“She did?” Helena asked, sounding oddly surprised. Myka could feel her soften, the stiffness of her posture gradually melting away into something that might almost, given some time, evolve into calm. “Why, how delightfully sweet of her.”

“I think she was worried about you,” Myka said, very quietly. “She can be pretty good at deflecting her issues when she wants to. I guess that’s...” She trailed off, not wanting to say the words, but Helena had already got the point.

“...something else that she and I have in common?” she suggested, characteristically thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Myka nodded, and tried not to let herself focus too much on that, turning her attention instead to the road and trying to lose herself to the ever-moving white lines, to the order and logic of the journey and not the rising maelstrom in her head. It was much harder than she’d anticipated it would be, thinking about all the ways that Helena and Claudia were so similar; it made her feel very distant, suddenly very far away from them both, as though they’d forged between them some kind of inexplicable connection, a link that Myka would never be a part of, a bond that she’d never share, no matter how well she imagined she knew either of them. And, though she’d never really thought of herself as a jealous person – she’d always been above such pettiness – there really was no other word to describe the feeling that surged now in her chest, her stomach, her blood.

There was a kind of determination in Helena’s stride when they got back to the B&B, and something told Myka to stay back from it. She climbed the stairs and crossed the hallway to Claudia’s room, moving as though she was in a trance, and Myka followed at a carefully-calculated distance, feeling inexplicably useless and hating herself for the fact that she cared.

She didn’t step into the room when Helena did, not sure whether Claudia would be happy to see her after everything that had passed between them, and not wanting to force her hand if she didn’t. Besides, this was Helena’s moment, her chance to shine, to prove her worth as so much more than an agent – as a human being – and Myka wasn’t going to intrude on that. She had no place in that room, no place by either of their side. And so, as much as it hurt, she stayed outside, loitering like the worst breed of uninvited guest, pressing her ear against its surface and listening to the intimacy within.

“HG!” There was a ghost of something unpleasant behind Claudia’s voice; exhaustion, maybe, or perhaps melancholy.

Whatever it was, Helena wisely didn’t say anything about it. She just murmured, too-casual, “It’s good to see you looking so cheerful, darling,” and let Claudia open up in her own time, at her own pace, in her own way. And, if she chose not to, then Myka could tell – and no doubt Claudia could too – that that was just as acceptable, that it didn’t matter if she said everything or nothing, that any choice she made was all right.

Claudia didn’t acknowledge the unspoken message, but Myka could tell by the tone of her voice when she finally did speak that she’d received it just the same.

“Yeah, well, y’know...” she muttered, but she didn’t sound ‘cheerful’ at all. It was a testament to Helena’s patience that she didn’t leap on it like Myka herself would have, and perhaps a kind of homage to Claudia, too, that she let the truth shine through her false bravado, even as she denied it with her words.

Words alone, Myka knew, were never enough for HG Wells.

“I’m reliably informed by your dear employer,” she remarked, ever playful even with the seriousness etched like ink upon her voice, “that you wish for me to be your babysitter.”

Claudia groaned, and Myka imagined her dropping her face into her hands, utterly mortified by the mere word. It was an entertaining mental image, and for a fraction of a second it chased away all the doubt. Of course, it was only for a second – a half-second, if even that – but it was enough. For as long as it lasted, it was enough.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Claudia muttered, sounding so much like a child. “Artie and Leena and Myka... they think I need one. And, since you’re, like, the only one of ’em who doesn’t think it’s the end of the world that I want to be by myself...” Myka could practically hear the flush in her voice, embarrassment coloured by hero-worship. “...y’know?”

“You thought, who better to not be by yourself with, than one who understands that impulse?” Just as Myka would’ve expected, Helena sounded utterly serious, as though every word Claudia said was the most important word in all the world. “That seems quite reasonable.”

Claudia exhaled, loud enough for Myka to hear it even through the twin barriers of distance and the door; clearly, she’d been anxious about this. “You think so?”

“I do indeed,” Helena affirmed, and her voice was so light, so tenderly maternal, Myka’s heart ached at the sound of it, and she didn’t need to hear the rhythm of Claudia’s breathing to know that hers felt the same.

For a long moment, then, there was no sound at all. Claudia seemed to not know what to say, and Myka supposed that Helena probably didn’t want to push her; somewhat guiltily, she imagined that Claudia had probably had to put up with too many people over the last few hours, too many so-called friends trying to make her talk about her so-called feelings. Maybe it really was for the best that Helena, who never tried to force anything from anyone, was the one she’d chosen spend time with her now.

Not that she’d ever admit the possible wisdom of the choice aloud, of course, after having tried to argue against it, but even so... the quiet empathy between them, even through the impassable door, was wholly undeniable.

After a minute or two, and sounding typically awkward and nervous, Claudia forced out, tremulous, sounding almost afraid, “Myka told you I’m okay, right? She told you that?”

Helena sighed softly, and even that dripped sympathy. “She did indeed, darling. Though you should realise, the saying of it, even by Myka, doesn’t make me any more disposed to believe it.” Claudia made a little sound of protestation, but apparently Helena wasn’t inclined to let her plead her case, at least not for the time being. “Darling. Do you think for a moment I don’t know the true reason you wished for me to be here, instead of your friends?”

Claudia huffed, sounding moody, but she didn’t say anything aloud.

“It’s because I understand that you’re not ‘okay’ yet,” Helena went on, and Myka grimaced to hear the words spoken again. “And, if you are to be driven into forced companionship for the duration of your recovery, you would naturally prefer it to be with somebody who will tell you that there is nothing wrong with that.” Claudia made another strained sound, and Myka didn’t need to see her to know that she was fighting with herself – the truth and the pain struggling in vain against her need to be defiant and brave, to make a good impression on this symbol of strength and intellect. “You would sooner be in the company of someone who understands what it is to feel what you do, than the others who will take it upon themselves again and again to attempt the impossible.”

“I can’t feel better,” Claudia admitted, a barely-audible whisper that Myka had to strain to hear at all and, when she did, it cracked her heart apart. “I wanna be all right. For you. I wanna be better for you, because... because you need me to be... because you need me to be all right.” She sounded strained, as though the words themselves caused almost more pain than all the time she’d been under the influence of the artefact, and Myka knew better than to let herself imagine that Helena couldn’t hear it too. “I want to be what you need me to be, HG... I want to be okay... but I’m not.”

Helena didn’t speak for some time, and Myka ached to go in there and intervene, to do or say something, to break the silence and the tension, anything that would mean Helena didn’t have to face this all by herself. But she didn’t, and it wasn’t simply because she was worried about being caught. She didn’t do anything, because couldn’t. She didn’t do anything because she knew (and, though it pained her deeply to admit it, she understood, too) that Claudia would only ever admit these things to Helena, that only Helena was allowed to see this, the side of her that was so desperate to get, the parts of her that would tear apart the rest of her if only they could claw out a hole big enough to crawl through.

“Claudia,” Helena said at last, and there was a fire in her voice that made even Myka take a step back. “I do not ‘need you’ to be anything. Do you hear me?” Myka didn’t need to see her to sense the urgency rippling through her, to feel the force of it, to know how much it cost. “I am not made of glass, Claudia. I won’t shatter into pieces if you are unable to be what you imagine I need you to be. I promise you, darling, I shan’t break if you are less than that you want from yourself. I will simply...” She took a deep breath, one that resonated even through the door, and Myka felt a flush of pride touch her face in the heartbeat before she realised what was coming next. “...I will simply do what I can for you, with what little I have.”

Claudia sniffled a bit; Myka wondered if the tears were visible, or if she was just scrunching up her face like she did sometimes when she was trying with every ounce of strength she had to keep from crying. “How are you so awesome, HG?” she whispered. “Like... how are you even a thing that exists?”

“I ask myself that very question on a near-hourly basis,” Helena replied dryly, and Myka really couldn’t tell whether she was playing up her mystique for Claudia’s sake, or being very serious for her own. Then, changing the subject so quickly that even Myka had trouble keeping up with it, “You know, darling, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. Your worried colleagues may insist that you are not to be left alone, but I don’t recall seeing anywhere in their doctrine a decree for constant conversation.”

Claudia didn’t say anything. Myka thought she heard another sniffle, but it was so quiet she couldn’t be sure. She wondered, sadly, what the two of them must look like just them... how Claudia’s face must be twisting itself up into a futile feint at maintaining composure in front of this woman she so idolised, how Helena’s must have been so tender, so compassionate, that Claudia wouldn’t stand a chance against it no matter how hard she struggled. And, of course, the way they were no doubt looking at each other, that subtle empathy, understanding with no need to speak it aloud, a wordless manifestation of all the reasons why Claudia wanted Helena there in the first place... and, without warning, that not-jealous feeling bubbled up in her chest once again.

“Of course...” Helena added swiftly, with her usual effortless grace, “if you would like to talk, I am, of course, always partial to a good spot of discourse with a worthy companion.” It was an invitation, and Myka wondered if she was offering it because she wanted to, or because there was something in Claudia’s face that was silently asking for it. “But the choice is completely yours.”

“I dunno,” Claudia said, and she sounded tortured. “I really don’t know, HG. I just... all I know is that I don’t... I don’t want to...” She whimpered again, and Myka decided that there was no way that she wasn’t opening crying now. “All they wanna do is talk about me. And I don’t want to, HG. I don’t like me right now, and I don’t want to talk about all the crap that’s wrong with me. I just... I... I don’t want to...”

She stopped, the words cutting off with a hitching little hiccup, and Myka felt the not-jealousy in her chest catch a spark of guilt and pain. Claudia sounded so lost, so helpless, and there was no masking the fact that she, Myka, had been a contributing factor to that, just as she had been to the way that Helena was the one who had to deal with it. Helena, who should never have been exposed to a young girl’s pain ever again, who had already been through too much of it, and who was now having to live through it all over again thanks to Myka and her failings. She had made them both hurt; they were both so raw already with their own pain, and time and again through this, she had added to it. She hated herself for that. So much more than she loathed being on the outside of all this, the uninvited guest eavesdropping on the family she loved, she hated herself for making it this way.

“All right,” Helena said, cutting into Myka’s thoughts like an unexpected dance partner, as she so often did. Her voice dropped lower than even Myka had ever heard before, agonising in its tenderness, so soft that it could only have come from the still-beating heart of the mother still so alive in her after so many years and so much loss. “In that case... perhaps you’d like to hear a tale or two from my time at Warehouse 12?”

Claudia made a little squeaking noise. “That’d be awesome,” she said at last, and her voice was choked and quavering.

“Very well, then,” Helena said, and Myka’s heart broke for her. “As you can imagine, I’ve amassed quite the collection of exciting exploits. And I know precisely where to begin...”

Myka didn’t wait to hear the story; she just turned around and left. Some moments should not be intruded on.

She went downstairs, moving more by instinct than with any intent, and sat down at the breakfast table, her thoughts running so fast that the rest of her could scarcely catch up.

For all that she tried, she couldn’t stop imagining their faces. Claudia’s all lit up with wide-eyed wonder, no doubt more animated now than she had been in days, certainly since before any of this happened. And Helena’s, too, practically aglow with delight, something real and pure and genuine, as though her life had a new meaning, her blackened soul rejuvenated by the simple thrill of telling stories, and so much more, of telling them to someone who was still young enough to revel in them.

So often (too often, really), Claudia’s enthusiasm was contagious. Myka herself had been on the receiving end of that far more times than she cared to count, and she knew that that effect would be all the more potent on Helena. More on her than on anyone else at all, in fact. And she knew why; she knew that Helena saw shades of her lost daughter – every bit as often as she saw shades of her own self – in the troubled young woman, knew that she couldn’t stop herself from making that connection, and she could scarcely imagine the effect that a smile like Claudia’s when she got excited would have on someone already so susceptible to her.

When Claudia got excited about something, she was radiant. Myka had seen it, time and again, but she was too cynical to let herself drown in it. Artie and Leena, sometimes even Pete, they weren’t so lucky, and she’d seen the way they melted when Claudia had one of those moments, when the world lit up around her because she was so bright. But with Helena, who saw that brightness in her even when she was doing nothing at all, who watched her light up simply by being alive and young? She would drown indeed.

Myka’s rational brain told her, over and over again, that this was a good thing. It had to be. It could only ever be a positive thing for someone like Helena, so lost in this world she didn’t (couldn’t) understand, to be made inescapable aware of everything that was young and pure and still innocent in it, to be reminded of all the things that were worth nurturing, worth caring for and protecting. It could only do her soul good to see all the things that had been so beautiful in her own time, to rediscover them here and now, and to see beyond all reasonable doubt that, for everything that had changed, for all the shadows, all the darkness, all the twisted corruption that shaped this brave new world... in spite of it all, there was still beauty here.

And, yes, for Claudia too, so naturally disposed to see her own youth as an obstacle, a hateful and frustrating thing, a challenge to always be overcome and beaten, a weakness and a handicap. They never talked about it, of course, and Claudia never voiced it aloud, but Myka knew that she felt it, because she remembered how she had once felt that way too. Claudia was so angry, though, so determined and so wild, always scratching and clawing for a place in the world, hungry like Myka had never been, desperate to prove that she deserved to exist. It would be good for her, being with someone who could love her for her youth, not in spite of it. Helena, and her love for the young, her need to nurture... Helena would be good for her.

Myka tried in vain not to wonder where she herself would fit into all of this. Was there a place in Helena’s soul for someone who shared her love of the written word, now that she’d found herself a new audience, a kindred spirit for her broken heart in the broken-minded Claudia? Was there still a place for Myka in any part of her? And could she, Myka, nothing special by comparison, ever hope compete in Claudia’s starry eyes with a real-life living legend? What did Claudia need from buttoned-up Myka Bering when she had HG Wells?

Most of all, though, why did it even matter? If they were finding what they needed in each other, why should she care so much about herself? Was she truly so selfish?

“Hey, hey, hey!”

Myka groaned, making absolutely no effort to disguise her irritation at the intrusion, and shot a withering (if at least vaguely companionable) scowl at its source. “Hey, Pete.”

“What’cha doin’?” he asked; he was eating something, mouth stuffed full of God-only-knew what, and of course he didn’t even bother to swallow before speaking.

“Nothing, really,” she answered, though she knew that her tone would give away her discontent, even if the eighteen hundred other signals she was radiating didn’t; she knew him better than to think he’d assume it was disgust at his lack of manners. “Just thinking.”

Pete made a disgruntled sound, face twisting into a characteristic failure at basic comprehension. “Eww. What’cha wanna do that for?”

She stared at him, incredulous but undeniably amused. “They really did just dig you up from the Stone Age, didn’t they?”

He shrugged. “Not complaining. Food’s better here.” Then, without warning, or even giving her a chance to prepare for it, he was suddenly very serious. “Is this about Claud?”

After two years, it really shouldn’t have surprised her, how well he could read her, and how effortless he made it look. She should have seen it coming, really, should have known that he’d see through her in a heartbeat, even when she thought she was going a good job at being ambivalent. But she didn’t, and the look on his face, on anyone else would have been sweet enough, but on him, it actually made her melt a little. Whatever reason the Warehouse had had for throwing them together like it did, it sure as hell knew what it was doing.

Emboldened, and knowing he’d call her on it no matter what she said, she opted to shoot for ignorance. “Please. Why would it be?”

“Mhm.” He dropped gracelessly into the nearest chair, and sprawled out, grinning at her in that way that was just begging her to punch him. “Why don’tcha tell Uncle Pete all about it?”

She rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about?”

“Sure there’s not,” he said, spraying crumbs from whatever was in his mouth. “C’mon, Mykes, it’s me. It’s not like we got any secrets from each other.” He paused, looking exaggeratedly thoughtful (which, for him, probably meant he was contemplating dessert). “At least, well, you know, not any secrets worth keeping...”

“I guess not,” she said, and she really didn’t know whether she loved or hated the fact that it was true.

He beamed, wide and boyish. “So, spill! Details me, girl!”

“Did you just say _‘details me’_?” she demanded, hands on her hips. “And call me _‘girl’_?” He shrugged again, played up his charisma until she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to throttle him or thank him just for being himself and taking her mind off everything else. “God, Pete!”

“Okay, okay...” He spread his arms and gulped down the last of whatever he was eating. “No more street-talk.” His eyes clouded, and she watched the façade disappear beneath the haze. “C’mon, Mykes. Unburden.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just worried about her.” The words tasted strange on her tongue, like what she was saying didn’t quite tally with what she was feeling, as much as it really was true. “She’s been through a lot. I’d like to think you’re worried too.”

“Sure I am,” Pete retorted. “But I’ve been there. They tried to send me to the dark side, too, remember? And I turned out all right.”

“That’s debatable,” Myka said, because she just couldn’t help herself. “But you know what I mean. Claudia’s not like you or me. She’s... susceptible.”

“Well, sure,” Pete acknowledged. “But we’re all susceptible to something, Mykes. Some of us way more than others. And Claud’s got the bonus of being way younger than the rest of us, you know? She’s got that whole bounce-back thing going for her. I never seen anyone bounce back faster than her. And, hey...” He leaned across, nudged her shoulder. “She’s got us in her corner, too. Ain’t nothin’ gonna keep her down with the Lattimer-Bering tag-team twins fightin’ her side.”

He flexed, and she knew he was just trying to make her laugh, and normally she would have humoured him with a chuckle even if she wasn’t really feeling it, but it was truly beyond her just then. “I’m just worried,” she said again. “They’re both so...”

Pete blinked, momentarily thrown, and it was only when his face finally cleared with belated understanding that she realised he hadn’t thought to include Helena as a variable in all of this.

“Both?” he echoed, characteristically slow, then frowned. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back the heck up a sec there, Mykes. You’re worried about HG too?” He gawked. “As in, like, _HG_?”

“Of course I am,” she said, keeping her voice tight and strong so that Pete would know that she felt completely justified in feeling that way. “She lost her daughter... her child. And then she had to step up and take care of Claudia – who, let’s face it, is about as grown-up as an after-school special, even when she’s not sick – because none of the rest of us could handle her. She had to step up and become a mother all over again, and with Claudia. _Claudia_ , Pete. We both know she’s not exactly the most well-adjusted kid in the world. And Helena...” She trailed off, shaking her head with a sad sigh. “I’m just worried about the effect they’re having on each other. That’s all.”

The honest befuddlement on Pete’s face told her that he wasn’t trying to mess with her this time; he genuinely couldn’t see her concerns. “Sounds like a great match to me,” he said cautiously. “They’re both as screwed up as each other. Maybe they can... y’know, maybe they can help each other.”

Maybe they could, but that was precisely the part Myka was having trouble with.

“Well, sure...” she muttered, and there must have been something in her voice to give her away, because suddenly Pete’s face was shifting, the corners of his lips twisting up into the kind of grin that was frankly completely inappropriate for this situation. She tried to ignore it, but it was fruitless, as so many things where when he was involved. “But that’s not the point. I mean, they— oh, for the love of God, Pete, what is it now?”

His grin widened. “You’re so totally not worried at all,” he announced, sounding almost gleeful. “You’re _jealous_.” She tried to argue, but he refused to hear it; now that he had it figured out – or thought he had – he was in his element, and he wasn’t about to let her try and drag him out because she didn’t want to hear what he was saying. “Oh, you so totally are, Mykes! You’re all—” His voice went up by a few octaves, then, in a highly unfair (and unflattering) impersonation of her. “ _‘I’m the one who’s been teaching her my kung-fu stuff! Why’s she wanna hang out with HG instead? I can be cool too!’_ ”

“Hey!” Myka protested, affronted and definitely not amused.

“I’m not done yet,” Pete told her, and it was abundantly clear that he was enjoying himself far more than the situation called for. “You’re also, like, _‘Oh, woe is me! I’m the one who brought the nerdy book person into the Warehouse, and now all she wants to do is play with Claudia! Peeeeeete!’_.”

“Pete!”

“Yeah, just like that!” he smirked, looking every inch like a kid at Christmas. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s sweet. Y’know, in a needy, attention-seeking way... but still...”

“Pete!” she yelled, knowing far too well that she was playing into his hands. “This has nothing to do with me! I have very serious concerns about this! I’m not jealous! I’m just—”

“Oh, you so are,” he said; the smirk lasted another moment or two, and she watched him relish it, before ultimately surrendering to something more sober. “But, hey, I get it. You’re just being you.” He looked at her steadily, and the spark in his eye told her that he actually wanted her to listen now, to sit up and pay attention; she could tell (because this thing went both ways, and she knew him too) that he wasn’t joking now. “But, hey. Just ’cause they need each other right now, that doesn’t mean they don’t need you too.” He patted her hand, mixing just the wrong amount of annoying condescension with just the right amount of honest sincerity. “Claud looks up to you. Like, a crazy, stupid amount. That’s not gonna change now just because she’s got some other nerd to look up to as well. And HG...” His expression shifted again, and there was that the smug boyishness again, as though it had never left at all. “Trust me, Mykes, the stuff that HG wants to do with you, she sure as hell doesn’t want to do with Claud.”

“PETE!”

“I’m just sayin’!” he cried, holding up both hands in self-defence, like he’d actually done her a service by pointing it out. Which, for the record, he hadn’t. Most definitely not. “My point is,” he pressed, “it’s like you said. Claud has been through a thing. And if HG is the thing that can make that thing into less of a thing... then that’s the thing that she needs right now. And, if HG’s happy to be that thing, then...” He sighed, momentarily unguarded, like the optimism in what he was saying didn’t quite mesh with what he was secretly thinking. “Mykes, you got time. You got all the time in the world to connect with HG, and with Claudia. But they might only have right now to connect with each other like this. This might be all they got. So, for the love of anything, if you care about either of them even a tiny little bit, Mykes... for cryin’ out loud... let them have their thing.”

It really, really wasn’t what she wanted to hear. But that didn’t change the fact that he was right.

Myka didn’t thank him for it, of course, because she was nothing if not stubborn when he forced her to accept something she didn’t want to, but that did nothing to stop him from throwing a cheery-sounding “you’re welcome!” over his shoulder when he got up to leave.

She sat there by herself once he was gone, just thinking about it. It was harder than she’d hoped, trying to deny all the ways he was right, and to accept that maybe there was a tiny corner of her mind that already knew it before he went and put it into words. It was that self-satisfied part of her that knew it, the rational part, the part that she loved so much when it was telling everyone else they were wrong, but kind of hated when it tried the same trick on her. That part of her knew all of this already, even before, but it was a whole lot harder to ignore what it was saying when it was talking in Pete’s voice.

It was a couple of hours, though it didn’t feel nearly so long, before the weight of her solitude began to bear down too heavily on her, and she surrendered to the desire to go back upstairs.

This time, when she came to a stop outside Claudia’s room (not entirely sure how she’d come to be there, but not so surprised, either), she didn’t stand outside and eavesdrop like before, wallowing in her own loneliness and the ‘what if’ of wondering where she fit into their world. This time, she knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was Helena’s, and it was low enough that Myka knew, even before she opened the door, precisely what she would find.

Claudia was fast asleep, curled up in a ball on top of the covers and looking very small. She didn’t make any sound as she slept, and Helena too was silent as she watched her, the reverent adoration in her eyes striking deep in Myka’s heart, wrapping itself around her soul and painting her a spectrum of new colours. They were both beautiful, in their own way, and the not-at-all jealousy in her chest expanded outwards into something that felt like love.

“I think I exhausted the poor darling,” Helena murmured, a halting half-breath, and didn’t look up. “Too much second-hand excitement, I imagine.”

She didn’t elaborate on the point, and Myka suspected it was because she knew all along that she’d been listening from beyond the door; Myka didn’t ask for an explanation either, knowing that it wouldn’t fool someone as sharp as Helena. So, instead, she just repeated for the hundredth time the same tired old question.

“How is she?”

“Exactly as she appears,” Helena answered simply, in a whisper.

As if on cue, as though Helena had actively requested a demonstration, Claudia shifted in her sleep; she still didn’t make a sound, but she was suddenly flailing with her whole body, twitching and reaching out, as though in search of an anchor, like she needed something to ground her. Instinctively, Helena provided just that; without hesitation, she took her hand and squeezed it, and Claudia settled almost instantly. Myka’s heart seized at the sight, torn between the two of them, but if Helena noticed the way that her breath caught, she said nothing of it.

“She’s still troubled, as you can see,” she whispered. “But, for the time being, she’s resting.”

“I see,” Myka said, floundering now too. “And are you all—”

“Myka.” Though she didn’t raise her voice at all, there was no concealing the sudden steel in Helena’s voice. “She’s _sleeping_.”

“I know,” Myka said, but couldn’t quite bring herself to look at Claudia. “I just thought—”

“I understand that, Myka.” Even in a whisper, Helena could silence her mid-word. “But she is sleeping. You know, as well as I do, how violently she has resisted that state of late. Don’t chance waking her with unnecessary conversation simply because you ‘just thought’. Just...” She exhaled, worshipful and heartbreaking. “Just let her sleep. If only for a moment, let the child be at peace.”

And so, Myka did.

She watched Claudia, the lines on her face so much deeper now than they had been just a week ago (and even then they were already so much deeper than they should have been at her age). She watched the way she moved, a ball of restless energy even in unconsciousness, the way she clung to Helena’s hand as though the contact was the only thing keeping her safe, like it was the key to free her from the cage of her mind, the demons that Myka knew visited her when she slept. She remembered London, remembered the way that Claudia, barely awake and so vulnerable, had begged her to stay, had buried herself in every part of Myka she could reach (her arms, her shirt, her body, all of her), had tried to drown herself in her presence. She didn’t even know Myka was here now, though; it was all about Helena. So Myka just stood back and watched. Watched in silent heartache, and tried not to recognise the way that her body was twisted up again here, straining for the same comfort in a different body.

“She can’t hide when she sleeps,” Helena whispered, seeming to forget herself and her prior insistences on quiet. Myka nodded mutely as she caressed the back of Claudia’s hand, tracing her knuckles with the pad of her thumb, rhythmic and hypnotic and tragic. “Her mind bends her body to its will, and leaves her soul exposed.”

Suddenly, Myka wondered what Helena looked like when she slept. Was she vulnerable too, like Claudia? Did she too reach for the comfort that she denied herself so violently when she was awake? Did she struggle and fight against her demons, like Claudia did, thrash about and twist up her body until the fear or the need for contact tore her free from her nightmares? Did she talk in her sleep, a firestorm of literacy even in slumber? Or was she peaceful? Did she find in sleep the tranquillity that so eluded her out here in the bright, loud world, find it and wrap it around herself in a shroud of dreams tailored by her imagination? Was sleep a cage for her, like it was for Claudia, or was it a carefully protected sanctuary?

Myka wondered if she’d ever be allowed to find out.

Claudia cried out, then, loud and surprising. The sound cut through the still air like a blade, keening and searing, but Helena drove it back down with a press of lips to her brow, chasing away the pain like only a mother could.

“It’s all right, darling. It’s all right. You’re dreaming, nothing more.”

Myka swallowed thickly, eyes stinging and sharp. She wanted to ask Helena if this was what Claudia had been like when she was sick, if this was how she’d been at her worst... but then, of course, she already knew the answer. No. Of course it wasn’t. It probably wasn’t even close.

It hurt to hear her crying now, and it hurt even more to see how naturally and readily Helena was able to soothe it... but nothing hurt quite so much as knowing that what she was seeing, this privileged moment of Claudia at her most vulnerable and Helena at her most beautiful, was scarcely even the tip of the iceberg. It was like nothing compared to everything that she had missed, all the tragic moments she would never understand because she had been too afraid to stand by and watch them then.

A moment or two passed before Claudia settled again, and when she did the silence fell back over her like a blanket. Helena leaned back and finally, she tore her gaze away. Looked up, at long last, and caught Myka’s eye.

“You don’t have to hide in the doorway,” she said, very quietly.

Myka chuckled wanly, and took a step forward. One step turned into another, until suddenly she was right there at the edge of the bed, barely a hair’s breadth from Helena, and trying not to watch the uncontrolled motion of Claudia’s eyes, frantic beneath their lids as she dreamed.

“I’m afraid I can’t fathom it,” Helena whispered, and there was a steel in her voice that clashed violently with the empathy. “I can’t fathom a world that would want to hurt her.”

Myka smiled sadly. There were so many things that she wanted to say, so many way that she wanted to offer comfort, but the words lost their way before she could shake them free from her mind. And maybe it was for the best that they did, for the best that she couldn’t give voice to the sentiments screaming within her.

Besides, it was pointless trying to offer words to a wordsmith. The language of poetry and promise was already so rich and practiced on a tongue like Helena’s; what good would it do for Myka to stumble over it, to strike too hard and too gentle in all the wrong places, to turn those richly-forced words into something clumsy and messy? No. It was definitely for the best that she had to seek out other ways to say what she felt.

Claudia shifted on the bed, restless and untethered. She didn’t cry out again, didn’t make any sound at all, but her fingers twisted and tightened around Helena’s, clutching at her hand as though the connection was the only thing she had in the world. Helena’s eyes were wet when they met Myka’s, and she could see reflected in all her unshed tears the regret and the fear in her – what if she couldn’t be the lifeline that Claudia needed?

But Myka still couldn’t speak. She couldn’t offer the conviction that she felt, the certainty in her heart and her mind and her soul, the bone-deep understanding of all the things that Helena still refused to see in herself. She couldn’t say anything, her throat closed up, feeling suddenly so much like Claudia as her dreams choked her into strangled silence. Like Claudia, she couldn’t speak, and she certainly couldn’t speak sense... but also like Claudia, she could reach out and take Helena’s hand.

The contact was, in its purest form, exactly the same. There was Myka, calming Helena with her fingertips just as Helena was calming Claudia, running her thumb across the ridges of her knuckles in a perfect mirror of what Helena was doing to Claudia, relishing the reflex in Helena’s fingers (slim and graceful, just like Claudia’s, clearly designed for weaving intricacies and tracing circuits) as they curled around her own... Helena, grounded in Myka’s touch just as Claudia was grounded in her own, and her grip just as desperate. So very similar, and yet it was so unfathomably different that Myka couldn’t understand how they could exist in the same universe.

She wished that Helena would believe her, but she understood that she couldn’t. Even if she could speak, she knew that it would be a waste. This was far better, this primal moment of tainted silence, their souls connected by their bodies, empathy seeping in through the skin where words had failed so many times already. Myka loved words; she loved them deeply and purely, in a way that ( if she were honest) she’d never quite been able to love people. Words were beautiful, and she loved them. But she was clumsy with them, stumbling over their nuances like Claudia stumbled over her own feet.

And so, instead, she just held her hand. Let Helena choose what kind of solace to draw from the touch, and decide when to let go.

But she didn’t let go at all. And neither did Claudia, even after she woke, looking blearily up at them both with eyes clouded with sleep and ghosts. Even awake, she still clung to Helena’s hand, held on just as tightly as she had when she was unconscious, and, in turn, Helena kept holding on to Myka’s.

There was no desperation in Helena’s grasp, though, not like Claudia’s. Myka could see the way that Claudia’s hand was shaking in Helena’s grip, the white-knuckle intensity in her fingers, the tension trembling through her. She was still drowning, still so frightened, even as she greeted Myka with her usual cocky half-grin. She was still so lost... still so very lost...

But there was none of that in the way that Helena held Myka’s hand. She wasn’t desperate, wasn’t fearful, and she was not lost. For all the countless heart-rending ways that she and Claudia were so similar, in this they were worlds apart. Claudia was a child, crying out for comfort, clinging to the contact because it was the only thing she could feel, and Helena was a mother, speaking through physical contact simply because she could, because those around her needed it, and who was she to deny them? Body language, like so many others, came so easily to her.

Helena’s grasp of language was remarkable. Stunning. It drove Myka almost to her knees sometimes, just to think of how rare and remarkable Helena could make something as simple as a sentence. Words that she had heard a hundred times before – a thousand, a million – took on new depths of meaning when they fell from Helena’s tongue or when they flowed from her pen; under her command, the world itself became something different, and it never failed to steal the breath from Myka’s lungs, to see the new shades of everything that Helena could create.

It was natural, then, that she was as gifted in the language of physicality as she was in the world of words. What was a touch, after all, if not another way of speaking?

None of them said anything. But then, they didn’t need to. Their hands, those precious points of contact, said everything that their throats couldn’t, forged a chain of words where voice and thought could not.

Claudia, small but violent, brutal in the strength she used, clinging with the kind of despair that she’d never let take any other shape, all her pain bleeding out in a form that could never be measured. She couldn’t ask for help, couldn’t admit to needing it; she could hardly express herself in words at all, even over simple things, and this was certainly not simple. So her body did it for her, gave voice to the parts of her that her mind held in chains, the parts she couldn’t hide but couldn’t speak, holding on to Helena with a desperate strength, everything in her poured out through her shaking fingers.

Helena, such a contrast. So maternal, her touch so gentle that Myka could scarcely believe it was there at all. The way she let Claudia do as she wished, let her hand be twisted into any shape that Claudia wanted, whether it was comfortable or not, the way she remade herself, became the image that would cast the most light on the darkest part of the girl who so needed it, so yielding and yet so willing, content to turn the world itself upside-down if it would just grant Claudia a heartbeat’s relief. It was divine, ethereal, all the things she did with words taking on a new form through the touch of her hand, and somehow all the more beautiful for being so wordless.

Myka, at last, neither needing nor nurturing. Myka, as always, just existing, the ever-present witness to them both, simultaneously blessed and cursed in being the one who couldn’t understand but who could see it all. Every tremor of Claudia’s pain and every twitch of Helena’s empathy, Claudia’s jagged edges rubbed so smooth and the tourniquet of Helena’s softness wrapped so tight around them... and she, Myka, unconnected and yet still touching. Myka, who could not be either of them – couldn’t hurt like Claudia, couldn’t feel like Helena – but who was with them. She wasn’t like them, not in the way they were like each other, but she was there just the same. This time, at least, she was there.

And she knew. She knew the things that they could not. Where Claudia was too frightened, too hurt and too angry to think at all... where Helena was too empathetic, so engulfed by the flames of her own compassion that Claudia’s pain might as well have been hers as well... while they felt and thought and hurt and _were_ , Myka was not. Myka was far away, watching them as if on the other side of a great chasm, and from that distance she saw all the things that they could not.

She saw Claudia, self-aware and strong, made so much more beautiful as she grew for having learned not to suffer her demons alone. And she saw Helena standing by her side, a beacon of pride, brighter than the sun, in awe of what she’d helped her friend become. The two of them, together and at peace.

Between them, they would find what they needed. Claudia would find her strength in Helena, and Helena would find her purpose in Claudia. Claudia would tend the delicate roots of faith that were all but lost in the fallow fields of Helena’s broken heart, until life grew and flourished once again, climbing up through the cracks to bloom in countless impossible colours. And Helena would heal the sickness in Claudia’s mind, would wrap her in bandages made of words and splints shaped from tender touches, the ever-enduring medicine of a mother’s love.

Myka knew it. From across the chasm, she could see it all. Claudia and Helena, their futures bright enough to burn.

They would be all right.

**FIN**


End file.
